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w /p£-3 4_&..-5r fe^'5\\ »— * ■ 

J,-' n 








jfuihor of " Fragme ts in Prose and Verse J* 








ll-Zif- Xb" 



'T'HE translations contained in this 
volume, with the exception of a few 
pages, were finished by Miss S— in the 
year 1 805; and the Pi^eface was read and 
approved by her. Some letters in Mr. 
Klopstock's publication are omitted, to 
avoid repetition; as well as several passages 
in those which are inserted in this collec- 
tion ; particularly such as contain remarks 
on the Messiah, as it was thought they 
would appear dry and uninteresting to 
those who are unacquainted with that ad- 

mirable Poem. In taking the liberty to 
omit such parts of tlie work as seemed least 
likely to please the English reader, the 
Editor only fulfils the request of her la- 
mented friend, as expressed in her letters 
on this subjeft,* 

Bath, Dec. 1808, 

*-See Fragriients, p. 126. 



THE Letters of Makgaret Klopstock, 
printed in the Correspondence of Mr. Ri- 
chardson, have been so much admired, that I flatter 
myself the volume now offered to the public will want 
no other recommendation, than an assurance that it 
contains the genuine writings of that most amiable 
woman, which were published at Hamburg in the 
year 1759, by her affliAed husbands To the trans- 
lation of that publication is prefixed an Account of 
the Life and Writings of Mr, Klopstock, with some 
letters and papers which tend to illustrate the cha- 
ra6icr of that great Poet. 

Klopstock, the Milton of Germany, the pride of 
his country, whose piety and virtue, still more than 
his talents, made him an honour to human nature^ 
—•Klopstock is scarcely known in England j while 


C vl ] 

on the stage, and In the closet^ the principles and 
morals of the rising generation are corrupted by an 
inundation of German literature, in which the boldest 
flights of genius, the noblest sentiments, and the 
most interesting feelings, are too often employed to 
betray the unsuspe6llng heart. Many an admirable 
pen has been employed to counterad: the mischiefs 
which such writings are calculated to produce, and 
may success attend their labours! I have taken a 
different path in order to attain the same end, and 
will endeavour to make vice odious, by exhibiting 
virtue in faer genuine form. I offer to the public 
no imaginary charaders, but a pi(S):ure drawn from 
the life. Klopstock is not here presented to the 
reader as the first poet of the age, but as one of the 
best and most amiable of men^ the tenderest hus- 
band, the kindest frietid. But this is not all : he 
appears In a far higher charafter. Fallen In an in- 
stant from 4hc height of human felicity, called to 
resign such a blessing as few of his fellow-mortals 
ever possessed, — his exalted mind seemed marked by 
Pjpvidence to shew the triumph of genuine Christ- 
ianity. In this little colle£tion of letters, we pene- 
trate into the deepest recesses of his hearty we see 
how much he loved, and was beloved. His warm 

[ vii ] 

imagination and acute feelings made him peculiarly 
susceptible of pleasure and of pain. Blest with the 
hand and heart of oneof the most excellent of women^ 
he was in every rcspefil ^^ happy past the common 
lot:*' when he was called to prove to the world that 
no trial is too greai for Christian fortitude to support. 
With hopes always fixed on the invisible worlds he 
looked forward to that happy moment^ when those 
who have been separated on earth shall meet again 
in heaven to part no more. 

** Strong in this hopcyhis comforters he comforts.'* 


The love of God which glowed in his heartj 
taught him to rest with filial confidence on His 
supporting hand^ fully convinced that all will work 
together for good to those who feel that love as it 
ought to be felt by a Christian. To the cold scep- 
ticism which now assumes the venerable name 
of philosophy^ his sentiments may perhaps appear 
absurd and irrational. To such philosophers every 
thing which they do not believe is superstition^ every 
thing which they do not feel is enthusiasm. But 
leaving them to the darkness which they prefer to 
the clear light of revelation^ I wish to obviate ob« 

je£tions which may possibly'' be made, by very sm- 
cere and pious Christians, to some of the sentimentf 
expressed by Klopstock and his Margaret with re- 
gard to the nature and employment of the Angels, 
and the state of the soul after death. On subjeAs 
which are placed so far beyond the reach of human 
reason, and on which the word of God gives us 
only such information as is calculated to aniniate 
our hopes, but not to gratify our curiosity, it may 
perhaps be thought improper to indulge the imagi- 
nation in groundless and unfounded speculations ; 
and Letters from the Dead to the Living, or from 
the Living to the Dead, may be received with a smile 
.of contempt, or with a frown of disapprobation. 
From this hasty decision I venture to appeal to 
those, and those onli/y whose hearts have felt the pain 
of losing what they fondly loved, and who are sup- 
ported by the hope of an eternal union in a happier 
world. Siich readers (and in this vale of tears there 
are many such) will view with indulgence the little 
arts by which the mourner tried to sooth his grief. 
They will not suppose that he expefted his letters 
should really be read by his departed wife, but they 
will feel what he felt, and wilh'ngly yield to a sweet 
illusion. " ' 

[ ix ] 

It is ihie that we know little of the invisible world, 
of the happy spirits who surround the throne of the 
Great Creator, or of the state of those who are re- 
leased from the corruplable body, and from all the 
sorrows of life; but do we therefore doubt their 
existence? and is it criminal to indulge the thoughts 
whith are so natural to the heir of immortality^ and 
to conjeAure what certainly we cannot prove ? We 
know, from the highest authority, that there are mi* 
nistring spirits, sent to minister to those who shall be 
heirs of salvation; and il seems not improbable that 
they may, as Klopstock supposes, be peculiarly at- 
tached to individuals, and being united to them by 
a friendship, of which earthly attachments give us 
only an imperfeft idea, that they may be employed 
to protect and guard the objefts of their carci This 
is *^ a doftrine, which has prevailed more or less ia 
every age of the church, which is without question 
most soothing and consolatory to human nature, and 
is certainly countenanced by several passages of holy 
writ, as well as by the authority of Origen, Tertullian, 
and other eminent fathers and commentators."* 

* Leftures on the Gospel of St. Matthew, by Bishop 
Porteus, vol. ii. p. 82, 83. 

[ * ] 

This opinion is likewise supported by Grotius^ 6i* 
shop Andrews^ Bishop Horne,t and other eminent 
divines; and it is not censured by one of the bright- 
est luminaries of our own age and nation^ whos^ 
words I have just quoted; and who adds^ with the 
mild wisdom, and truly christian liberality^ so con- 
spicuous in all his writings, ^^ No one that ^he* 
risbes this notion can be charged with weakness or 
superstition; and if it should be at last an error^ it 
is (as Cicero says of the immortality of the soul) so 
delightful an error, that we cannot easily suffer it to 
be wrested from us." 

We know that when the body returns to the earth 
as it was, the spirit returns to God who gave it; 
and it is a pleasing thought, that friends thus sepa* 
rated from us by death may still w,atch over us with 
tender concern, may still behold, and perhaps assist, 
our humble ^deavours to perform the will of Him 
who reserves for us such happiness as they now enjoy. 
W^ may be mistaken in this idea; but it seems to 
be an innocent illusion; and it has afforded comfort 
to many wretched mourners, on whom unfeeling 

f See his admirable Sermon on the Existence and Em- 
ployment of Angels, vol. iv. p. 311. 

scepticism has no comfort to bestow. Such specu- 
lations tend to disengage us from sensual pleasures^ 
and to strengthen our connection with the invisible 
world ; they animate our exertions to attain the 
happiness which is not to be found in this life^ and 
they reconcile us to those dispensations of Providence 
which often call us to resign our highest enjoyments, 


and our most virtuous attachments; which command 
us to forsake all, and follow Him, vi^ho, for the joy 
that was set before him, endured the cross* That 
such was their efied: on the exalted mind of Klop- 
stock, must be evident to all who are acquainted with 
his writings;— and if this little publication should 
increase the number of those who study his works 
with {he attention they deserve, I flatter myself that 
I am doing an important service to my country; and 
(to borrow the words of the elegant translator of 
Oberon) that not the lovers of poetry only, but who. 
ever loves his neighbour, and adores his God, wiil 
owe no trivial obligation to the editor who makes 
him better acquainted with the author of ^' The 
Messiah." This I will endeavour to do by throwing 
together such particulars as I have been enabled to 
colleft, of the life, the charadler^ and the sentiments^ 
of this extraordinary man. 

[ xii ] 

Of his lovely and accomplished wife it is unne- 
cessary to say more than that she was, as Cramer 
calls her, *^ Klopstock in feminine beauty," Her 
pidture has been already presented to the English 
reader, drawn by her own hand, in her letters to 
Richardson, with such enchanting softness, and such 
beautiful simplicity, that it is superfluous to add any 
thing on the subjcft. Those letters shew what she 
was while she was the happy wife of Klopstock; and 
«ome of those which are now presented to the public, 
will shew what she was in the last dreadful moments 
of her life ; when, with a martyr's firmness, she 
resigned her pure and virtuous spirit, into the hands 
of her Creator. 






■^ was born in Quedlinburg, July 9d, 1734. He 
was the eldest pf eleven children; six sons, and five 
daughters. His father^ who was a magistrate of 
Quedlinburg^ and afterwards farmed the bailiwic of 
Friedeburg, was a singular character; but with 
some peculiarities, he possessed many virtues; and 
united great good -nature with extreme uprightness 

* Compiled from papers whiqh Mirere communicated by 

Dr. Mumssen, and tran^ted by Miss S • To Which 

are added tf^tradts from ** Klopstock £r und, iiber ihn," by 
Professor Cramer; Hamburg) 1780: and from a Life of 
Klopstock) published i^ the Monthly Maga^im. 

r 2 I 

of principle, and uncommon firmness and resolution. 
His eccentricities appear to have had no serious in- 
fluence on the education of young Klopstock. He 
left the powers of his body and mhid to unfold them- 
selves freely, unrestrained by severity; and his boyish 
years flowed on in an uninterrupted stream of hap- 
piness, resulting from a proper distribution of his time 
between serious business ai>d innocent relaxation. 
In a beautiful country, on the banks of the Saal, the 
poet passed his early years, under the guidance of a 
private tutor. He was employed during some hours 
every day in learning the elements of the languages, 
and he devoted the remaining part of his time, with 
youthful ardour, to athletic exercises. When he was 
fit for a public school, in his thirteenth year, his 
father took him to the Gymnasium at Quedlinburg. 
Here Klopstock passed three years, unmarked by 
fame, and rathet unfolding his corporeal than his 
mental powers: but the remembrance of those un- 
fettered years afforded him, ever after, the sweetest 
enjoyment. Even in his old age, he intre^ted all 
his friends who travelled through Quedlinburg, to 
visit the play-yard where he had enjoyed 4hose early 
pleasures which are never forgotten, and which he 
loved to describe even to the minutest circumstance. 

[ 3 ] 

It appears that while he attended the Gymn^ium, 
he had in some degree negle£led his studies, for when 
speaking of his intended removal to the College, he 
says, '* My father now represented to me that I 
must be particularly industrious, as thS time of my 
remaining at the College would depend upon the 
success of my first examination, and on the conse- 
quent rank which I should obtain in the classes. I 
followed his advice, and again assiduously applied 
myself to Latin and Greek; and I still remember 
how frequently I walked up and down my garret in 
the heat of the sun, and studied in the sweat of my 
brow." His introduftion at the College is thus de- 
scribed by Mr. Cramer. ^ His father now took him 
to the College, and the examination was arranged. 
The Re£lor condu(!;ted him into an apartment, and 
g^ve him an exercise to write, leaving with him 
Weismann's Lexicon, and a grammar. It was to 
be completed in three hours, and then he was to 
ring the bell; but he rung before the appointed time. 
The Re£tor .appeared. '* Is it finished already?" 
said he; then cast his eye over it, and sent him into 
the play-ground, where the scholars -assembled, as 
usual, to welcome and to ridicule the new comer. 
One of the elder ones came to him with a scornful 

B 2 

C ♦ 3 

air, and said, *^ K-1-o-p-Klop stock, is that your 
name?'' Upon which his uncommon name was 
immediately echoed and re-echoed, and laughed at. 
This enraged him, and going up to the boy, 
with a menacing air and stern look, he answered> 
"Yes, my name wKlopstock:" and from this time 
he was never assailed with any raillery, particularly as 
the RcAor highly applauded his exercise, and imme- 
diately gave him the highest place in the third class* 
Klopstock was in his sixteenth year when he pro* 
ceeded from the Gymnasium to the College, where 
his chara£ter as a man and as a poet began to be 
displayed in a very advantageous point of view. The 
reftor Freytag deserves particular notice amongst his 
teachers ; he elucidated the ancients with a precision 
and taste which were very rare at that time : he 
sought to make his scholars familiar, not only with 
the language, but with' the spirit of the writer. 
Under this gentleman the industrious youth ac- 
quired perfeft knowledge of the classics, entered into 
all the beauties of the ancient authors, and while he 
followed with rapture the bold flights of their ori- 
ginal genius, he fed a flame within himself which 
was soon to burst forth in full lustre. H^ read few 
books, but they were the best; and be read with acute 

[ 5 ] ^ 

discrimination and unwearied attention. Virgil 
was his favourite poet; and while he saw in him the 
model of perfeft beauty^ he felt a strong impulse to 
imitate him. He applied himself very diligently to 
compositions both in prose and verse ; and some 
Pastorals, according to the fashionable taste of the 
time^ preceded one of the noblest plans that ever 
entered the soul of a poet. 

At this early period of his life, Klopstock formed 
the resolution of writing an epic poem, which till 
then had not existed in the German language. He 
tells U8 himself how this idea arose in his mind. 
His enthusiastic admiration of Virgil; the glory h^ 
promised himself in being the first who should pro* 
duce a work like the ^neid in the language of his 
native country; the warmth of patriotism which early 
animated him to raise the fame of German literature 
in this particular to a level with that of other Euro- 
pean countries; the just indignation he felt in reading 
the works of a Frenchman, who had denied to th« 
Germans any talent for poetry; all combined, with 
the consciousness of his own superior powers, to 
spur him on to the execution of his exalted plan. 

In his beautiful Oration on quitting the College at 
Quedlinburg, after a very ingenious dissertation on 

[ 6 ] 

the state of poetry In Germany, he expresses his 
idea of the talents requisite for the composition of an 
Epic Poem, in the following words. *^ If amongst 
our present poets there may not be one who is 
destined to embellish his native country with this 
honour; hasten to arise, O glorious day, which shall 
bring such a poet to light! And thou sun which 
shall first behold, and with mild beams enlighten 
him, approach ! May virtue^ and wisdom, with the 
Celestial Muse, nurse him with the tenderest care • 
May the whole field of nature be displayed before 

him, and the whole magnificence of our adorable 

religion. To him may even the range of future 
2^es be no longer wrapt in impenetrable darkness ! 
And by these instru£lors may he be rendered 
worthy of immortal fame, and of the approbation 
of God himself, whom above all he will praise !'* 
On this passage Cramer makes the following obser- 
vation. * How much would any other person have 
found to say of himself on this occasion ; but he, 
with his whole plan in his head, and in his hearts 
and a determined resolution to execute it, and to be 

that poet of whom he here speaks ; he says no, 

thing.* Klopstock was long undecided in the choice 
of bis si^bj^d. He sought put some hero in the Ger* 

[ 7 ] 

man history, and had once fixed on the Emperor 
Henry, the founder of the freedom of his native city;* 
but after choosing and rejeding many difierent sub- 
jects, he at last formed the plan of his Messiah; and 
this preference was given even before he was ac- 
qusunted with Miltoki, whose Paradise Lost became^ ' 
soon after that period, fiis favourite and almost un-» 
interrupted study. 

An interesting account of Klopstock, when very 
yodng, was inserted inBodmer's Letters on Criticism^ 
and reprinted by Cramer, in the year 1780, with 
the approbation of the poet. Mr; Cramer speaks of 
it in the following manner. ^ I think it cannot be 
wrong to insert here this letter of our excellent Bod- 
mer, since it is very worthy to be known, and is in a 
collection of pieces which are no longer r^. Klop* 
stock himself is, I know, well satisfied with it; and 
it is very remarkable that Bodmcr should have drawn 
such an animated portrait of him previous to their 
personal acquaintance. I can venture to assert, that 
if we divest this representation of mere fiClion and 

* Henry the First, sumamed the Fowler, who began to 
reign in the year 920- He conquered the Huns, and after- 
wards made a successful war oo the Venedl, who inhabited 
Saxony. He died ia 936. 

[ 8 } 

ornament^ we shall find much truth which Bodmer 
has blended with it/— From this account I ven- 
ture to make a few extra£ts^ omitting conversations 
which are probablj .fictitious. 

In his father's library are many sermons^ and ten 
Bibles^ but not a single poet. He soon distinguished 
the Bible from all the rest^ still more through his 
own taste^ than on account of his father's earnest 
recdmmendations. He made it his constant pocket 
companion, not merely as a duty, but for pleasure. 
While yet in his childhood, he was so well acquaint- 
ed with the phraseology of the Hebrew language^ 
and the figurative manner of representing things, 
which he found in that book, that he used it, un. 
known to himself, wherever he would express any 
thing with earnestness. — In a walk with his father, 
in a fine spring mornings before he was quite four- 
teen years old, they had sat down under an oak, and 
a cool western breeze blew on them. His first words 
were, ^^ All around the oak receives Us in his shadow. 
Spft airs brefathe on us, like a whisper ot the presence 
of God.'' Then again he said, ^^How peaceful 
grows the tender mos3, here on the cool earth ! The 
hills lie round about in lovely twilight, as though 
pew made, arid blooming like Eden." 

C 9 ] 

At that time the strong representations of inani* 
mate nature^ which he found in the poetical books of 
Job and the Prophets, afTefted him most deeply^ and 
he was often heard^ when he awoke in the mornings 
repeating whole chapters with a strong accent^ as 
a poet might do who was reoiting his own work. 
The descriptions were so strongly impressed on bis 
mind, that when the things themselves came before 
bis eyesj h,e would often say they were not new to 
him; he had already seen them in the Psalms and 
the Prophets. When he approached to manhood, 
the pathetic passages took the same strong hold on 
bis heart, as the glittering and magnificent images 
had before taken on his fancy. A promise that 
fallen man should find mercy, drew tears from his 
eyes; a trace of the immortality of the soul threw 
him into a transport of gratitude. Religion did not 
remain a mere speculation of the brain; it was a 
clear view of the greatness and glory of the 
Messiah; it was the pure feeling of love and 
grateful adoration. From this turn of mind sprung 
a style of writing full of poetry, before he had ever 
seen a verse, or knew any thing of prosody. He 
was a poet, while neither he nor his father sus- 
peded it. I have seen a letter he wrote, before ht 

[ 10 3 

had attained his sevenieenih year, to a youth of his 
own age, who seems to have been bis only intimate 
acquaintance: it contained the follov^ing expressions. 
'^ My friend ! Image of my mind! whom an in- 
visible Son of Heaven raises up, with me, to higher 
hopes than those of the human herd; dost thou look 
on the tender youth of our friendship with that 
cheerful eye, which makes the innocence of youthful 
days cloudless like the days of eternity? What 
dost thou feel in the expressions wherewith thy 
noble heart consecrates to thy friend, more than 
merely a verbal friendship ? Let us so ennoble it by 


the reSitude of our minds, that He who pours down 
his blessings from Heaven, may look with pleasure 

on it." 

In the autumn of the year 1745, Klopstock left 
the College at Quedlinburg, and removed to the 
University of Jena. His intention was to study 
theology, but the dull disputes of scholastic divines 
did not accord with the state of his mind at that 
period. He wanted no evidence to prove the truth 
of a religion which had taken entire possession of 
his heart, and he could noi listen with patience to 
the cavils of infidels, or the cold reasonings of me- 
taphysicians ; and after a tedious half year, the 

t 11 3 

* ardent youth, whose mind was accustomed to better 
nourishment, removed with his relation Schmidt to -♦ 
the university of Leipsic. 

During the few months spent at Jena, he had, 
however, in the stillness of his closet been realizing 
some part of his intended plan by tracing out the 
three first cantos of the Messiah, He composed 
these three cantos in prose, but his performance 
greatly displeased him. He was fired with a lau- 
dable indignation at feeling himself so inferior in 
harmony to his great models Homer and Virgil, 
Lost in his own reflexions, he would frequently 
wander up and down the country round Jena, and 
in one of these solitary walks he came to a deter- 
mination to imitate the great poets of antiquity, 
in the strufture of their verse. In a few hours he 
completed a page of Hexameters, and from that 
time decided on composing his poem in this mea- 
sure. Thus he was the first who introduced into 
German poetry a metre which was supposed to be 
unattainable in that language, and he afterwards 
triumphantly defended this mode of versification, 
both by example and argimient. 

In the spring of the year 1746, he carried with 
biui to Leipsic the three first books of the Messiah, 

C i2 ] 

which astonished and delighted a few ingenious 
friends to whom he shewed them. Amongst these 
early friends of KJopstock were, Cramer, Gartner, 
Schlegel, Giesecke, Zacharia, Gellert, and Rabener. 
Schmidt, the relation as well as the bosom friend of 
the poet, had accompanied him to Lcipsic. These 
young favourites of the Muses bad formed themselves 
into a literary society, in order to improve their taste 
by mutual criticisms on their various essays, of 
which the best were printed in a paper entitled f* Bre- 
men Contributions." Klopstock was admitted into 
their small society, and the Messiah was made 
known to them in consequence of a scene which is 
thus described by Mr. Cramer. ^^ In Klopstock's 
apartment the Messiah first came to light* After 
the first compliments between him and my father, 
Schmidt proceeded immediately to the execution of 
a plan he had formed. He turned the discourse to 
literary subjeiSls, spoke of the English with excessive 
praise, and then adverted to the Germans, and par- 
ticularly to the Contributors, J of whom bespoke in 
a manner that iftduced my father to take the part of 

f The Literary Society who published the Bremen Co»- 

[ 13 J 

his friends^ but with the greatest moderation^ ac- 
cording to his well-known charafiler. He said, they 
knew very well that they were not perfe^i^^ but they 
endeavoured to become so. They employed all 
possible severity of critlcisni towards themselves ; 

they Schmidt interrupted him, and said, with a \ 

smite, *^ Yes, yes, severity of criticism is very well ; 
but genius, not one German possesses that; the 
English, — the English.*' My father was preparing 
to reply, when Klopstock, who till then had been only 
a speftator, grew warm and interposed. ' Dear Mr. 
Cramer, what will you think of my friend ? But he 
gnly pretends to insult you. When you shall become 
more acquainted with his manner, you will find thj^t 
he is not in earnest.' ^^ What, (cried Schmidt,) does 
he say so ? Do not believehimit He is the most severe 
critic amongst us. If you did but know how malicious 
he isP' Then starting up, with an arch look, and 
a firm grasp, be drew the manuscript of the Messiah 

out of a chest. " There, there, (said he,) now you 
shall hear something.** The affair now became 
serious. Klopstock, whose plan of secrecy was at 
once overturned by this treachery, sprung up, his 
countenance glowing, and said, ^ Schmidt, I do 
not know you at this moment.' He struggled with 

[ 14 3 

him, endeavouring to snatch away the manuscript ; 
but Schmidt, who became more and more resohite, 
paid no regard to his opposition, kept him ofF with ^ 
one hand, and with the other held up the papers, 
like Caesar when he swam across the Nile. My 
father, whose curiosity was now strongly excited, 
entreated; Klopstock protested; but Schmidt began 
to read. Still however Schmidt contrived a little 
mischief; for though he usually read well, he now 
took pains to do it ill, that he might if possible 
induce my father to find fault with the work, 
or at least to listen coldly, in order that his 
own triumph over the Contributors might be com- 
plete. But my father was too sharp-sighted to be 
deceived. Scarcely had Schmidt read one page, 
before he interrupted him with much animation. 
^ Mr. Schmidt, I must tell you that should be read 
quite in a different manner.* *f You have taken 
the words out of my mouth, (said Klopstock;) and 
now, Schmidt, since the secret is betrayed, give it to 
me. I will read it myself.'* He now took courage, 
and read the whole first canto, and he particularly 
..excelled in reading Hexameters. The termination 
, of this adventure may easily be imagined. Hos- 
jilities with Schmidt were presently laid aside; my 

I 15 ] 

father received the poem as it ought to be receiwd, 
expi^ssed to Klopstock his wannest approbation^ 
and said: there was a society of friehds, to whom it 
woold afiord the greatest pleasure, if he might be per- 
mitted to impart it to them, and that it should remain 
A secret with them. The heart of our dear friend 
was already gained, and he consented. My father 
took the Poem first to Gartner, iheia to the others, 
and in consequence was^ sent, by them all, with an 
invitation to Klopstock to join their society. He 
accepted it. They regarded each other at the first 
moment as friends, and they were really so, for 
amongst such beings tedious ceremonies are useless/' 
In the two following years lie produced many 
excellent Odes, which, together with the three cantos 
of the Messiah, appeared at first m the Bremen 
Contributions. It may with truth be observed, 
that at this period Germany was not prepared for thie 
reception of a poet of so superior a cast] the public 
taste was not sufficiently formed to relish the lofty 
flight of Klopstock 's genius; but his cantos were 
read with the hrghest warmth of admiration by those 
who possessed a genuine taste for poetry, and the^r 
applause was sufficient to animate the poet in the 
prosecution of his sublime plan. 

t •< 



[ 16 3 

Klopstock's residence at Leipsic became unpIea-( 
sant to him, after he had lost his chosen friends^ who 
gradually left the University. The warm and tender 
attachment that bound him to this estimable circle 
in Leipsic, formed one of the sweetest recollections 
of his past life^ on which he dwelt with peculiar 
pleasure even in his old age. When he afterward$ 
contemplated in pensive sadness each of these be- 
loved friends sinking successively in(o the gravic 
before him, his only comfort was the remembrance 
of what they had once been to him, and the prospect 
of what they would be in a happier world. 

In the course of the year 1748, Klopstock left 
Leip$ic, to reside at Langensalza, in the house of a 
relation named Weiss, whose children he undertook 
to instru£t. This is an interesting period in the life 
of Klopstock, as he now became acquainted with the 
beautiful sister of his friend Schmidt,' who is the 
subjefl of some of his most admired poems, in which 
ghe is distinguished by the name of Fanny. He 
never had courage to make proposals of ^ marriage, 
as^he thought he had no prosped: of success, and the 
Jady was soon afterwards united to another. Many of 
bis odes and elegies, as well as fais letters to Bodmer, 

prove the purity and ardour of this youthful passion; 


[ n ] 

and the pain of not seeing hinilself beloved, added 
to the influence of severe application on his health, 
conspired to throw him into a deep melancholy^ 
which tasted for some time, and threw a dark co- 
louring over all his poetic effusions. It is probably 
to this period of Klopstock's life that Mr. Cramer 
alludes, when speaking of his cheerful disposition iu 
the latter part of his life he makes the following 
observations. *^ I could wish to know from what 
cause it arises, that in many persons who are re« 
tnarkablefor sensibility, and strong powers of ima* 
gination, precisely that period of life when the body 
IS in its greatest vigour, and the animal spirits are 
the most lively; when the prospeft of all the de- 
lights of honour and friendship is most fair and 
blooming, and when the termination of these enjoy- 
ments appears at the greatest distance ;— Ma^ period 
is, however, frequently the time of melancholy rc- 
fledion^^ of familiarity with the grave, and habitual 
contemplation of death. This ^* Youth for ever,*'* 
whose age even now shines with all the brightness 
of a fine spring morning, and who, with the well- 

* The " Youth for ever" was the title given him by 
«ome of his iotimate friends, as appears by Dr. Mumsseil's 
third fetter to the Editor. 

[ 18 ] 

regulated disposition of a wise man^ his brow never 
clouded with melancholy or ill-humour^ gathers all 
the flowtrs of joy, was formerly wrapped in the 
mourning attire of Young. Never did he more se- 
riously refled: on the instability of all earthly things, 
or on the importance of eternity. Many times did 
he then dip his pencil in the darkest colours, while 
on the richest and most beautiful night pieces, he 
painted— death." This however wore away entirely 
after a few years, from travelling, agreeable society, 
constant occupation, increasing fiame, and a fresh 

While Klopstock had retired from the world^to aa 
obscure retreat, his Messiah excited such a degree of 
attention, as no other book had ever awakened in 
Germany. Friends and enemies, admirers and 
critics, appeared on all sides; but its success was 
owing as much to the sacredness of the subjed; as to 
the beauty of the poetry. Young preachers quoted;^ 
from the pulpit; and Christian readers loved it, as a 
book chat afforded them, amidst the rage of con- 
troversy, some scope for devout feeling. By some 
divines it was condemned as a presumptuous fi^ion; 
and the partisans of the grammarian Gottshed raised 
fitill greater clamour against the work on account of 

[ 19^1 


the language ; while the Swiss critics^ on the other 
hand^ extolled it to the greatest' de^ee. Bodmer in 
particular^ the translator of Milton^ embraced the 
cause of the German epic bard with enthusiastic 
ardour^ and contributed greatly to accelerate thd 
celebrity of the poem. Klopstock^ whose mind wa^ 
occupied with sublime and original ideas, engaged 
in none of these disputes, but suffered friends and 
enemies to write as they pleased, while he was silent^ 
and followed the bent of his genius. 

In the summer of the year 17i90, Klopstock went 
to Zurich, on an invitation from Bodtfier, at whosie 
house he resided, and with whom he had previously 
carried on a correspondence. Some of his letters to 
this excellent friend will be found in the following 
collection. Klopstock was received in Switzerland 
with the most flattering marks of esteem and respeA, 
The sublime and enchanting beauties of that ro- 
mantic country, the firiendship of some highly cul- 
tivated minds, and the uncorrupted manners of that 
virtuous nation, would perhaps have made him 
faithless to his native land, had not an unexpected 
circumstance opened to hira very different prospers 
in life. The good genius of Germany raised up 
the illustrious Danish Count Bernstorff, whose capa^ 

c 2 

[ 20 3 

cious mind traced in the very commencement of 
Klopstock's work >the future glory of the poet. 
The three first cantos had been presented to him at 
Paris^ where he resided as Danish Ambassador, and 
he immediately resolved to take the author under his 
patronage. By Count Bernstorff Klopstock was 
recommended to the favourite minister of Frederick 
V. and through him to the King himself, by whom 
he was invited to reside at Copenhagen, on a pension 
which set him above pecuniary cares, and left him 
nt liberty to compleat the Messiah. This entitled 
the Danish Monarch to the noble ode in which 
Kllopstock dedicated to him his sublime poem, and 
gratitude attached him to his new country.* 

It was in the spring of the year 1751, that Klop- 
stock quitted his beloved Switzerland, and travelled 
through Saxony to Denmark. He visited his re- 
lations at Quedlinburg, and some of his academical 
friends at Brunswick; and at Hamburg he first saw 

* It appears however that his friends thought him idle ; 
for in a letter to Cramer, dated May 6, 1755, Rabener says, 
•< How is Klopstock? Here people think he is dead. If 
we do not receive the promised book at the present fair, I 
ah<\\\ be of opinion that it is nof right for kings to give pen- 
sions to great geniuses/' 

[ 21 ] 

the lovely and accomplished Margaretta Moller, who 
afterwards made him the happiest of men. An in- 
teresting account of the progress of this attachment 
will be found in Mrs. Klopstock's letters to Rich- 
ardson; and the letters of her friends, after the fatal 
event which put a perjod to the poet's short-lived 
felicity^ with his own account of her charaSer^ and 
some fragments of her writings^ form the principal 
contents of the following pages. 

After his first meeting with this lady^ Klopstock 
continued his journey to Copenhagen^ where he 
lived in the enjoyment of tranquillity and leisure^ 
belovec) and respected by all who were friends to 
science and virtue. Here he studied the works of 
Young and Richardson. With the former he kept 
up a correspondence^ and addressed to him an Ode^ 
which is strongly expressive of esteem and admira- 
tion. The letters which constantly passed between 
bim and his beloved Margaret, knit still closer 
the bonds of afl*e£lion; but domestic circumstances 
obliged them to delay their union to a distant period. 
In the year 1752, the King having determined to 
spend the summer in Hdlstein, Klopstock took that 
opportunity to return to the objeAof his aflfeaionat 
Hamburg, and conseofated this happy interval to 

love and the muses. To this circutnstance we are 
indebted for his captivating songs to • his Margaret, 
under the title of Cidli, the name which he had 
given to Jairus's daughter in the Messiah, JHis 
matrimonial alliance was, hoWever, still deferred, 
and he was obliged to leave her once more, in order 
to return with the King to Copenhagen, where he 

Continued during the whole .of the following year. 
In the summer of th6 year 1754, he travelled again 
to Hamburg; and at length, on the 10th of June, 
he was uniied"to the amiable objeftof hisaffeftion. 
After his marriage he went with his bride to Qued- 
linburg; and it was there that, after a severe illness, 
he wro^e his celebrated Ode on Recovery. But he 
%njoyed for a very short time the bliss of connubial 
afleflion; in the year 1758, the beloved partner of 
his heart died in childbed, and his affli(ftion may be 
more easily imagined than described. He cherished 
the remembrance of this charming woman to the 
last moment of his life, and always found a melan- 
choly pleasure in visiting her grave in the village of 
Ottensen, near Hamburg, where he dired:ed that 
his own remains should be placed by her side. 

Tbcafflifted heart of Klopstock still hiitlg on his 
protedor and friend. Count BernstorfF^ and be made 

[ 23 ] 

Copcnbagenbis residence^ till that great man designed 
his office in the year 1771. After this period the 
poet returned to Hamburg, where he still enjoyed a 
pension from the King of Denmark^ by whom he 
was much esteemed and loved. In 1775, the Margr 

grave Frederick of Baden sent him a pressing invi- 
tation to Carlsrbue^ where he remained about a 
year^ and then returned to Hamburgh at] which plac^ 
he resided during the remainder of his life. 

Notwithstanding the serious turn of mind which 
pervades the writings of this great poet^ he was fond, 
of society^ and very lively and agreeable. His coun- 
tenance (as I am informed by one of bis friends) was 
extremely pleasing^ though not remarkably hand-^ 

some. His eyes were blue^ full of animation^ but 
chiefly expressive of softness and benevolence. His 
voice was uncommonly sweet; and when he first 
addressed a stranger, it was in a low^ gentle, intreai^ 
ing tone^ till by degrees he commanded his whole 
attention by the spirit and energy of his conversation. 
Animated with all the fire of genius^i but always 
gentle and unassuming^ there was no harshness in 
his look or manner; nor were his extraordinary 
talents marked by any strong lines^ or remarkable 
ej^ression of countenance; so that where he was 

[ 2* ] 

txot known, his figure would probably have attra£tecl' 
no notice^ till he entered into conversation. His^ 
chara£ler is thus described by his friend Sturtz.; 
^* Klopstock is always cheerful in company, and 
possesses an unabating vivacity. He often adorns 
a trifling thought with all the richness of his poetic 
powers. He is never severe in ridicule, nor positive 
in argument, but expresses his opinions with great 
modesty, and listens attentively to the opposite sen- 
timents of others. Equally remote from the servility 
of the courtier or the superciliousness of vulgar 
pride, he never loses sight of the man in the splen- 
dour or the meanness of his situation: he esteems 
birth highly, but real merit still more. In the polite 
circles of insipidly fine people, unmarked by any 
stamp of chara£ler, Klopstock is never to be found ; 
he prefers the humbler and more substantial tnjoy* 
ment of domestic friendship, heightened by the 
surrounding charms of nature in rural seclusion. I 
have often been delighted at seeing him pass by 
amidst a crowd of young peogle, by whom he is 
almost always surrounded, and who appeared highly 
gratified at being in his company. In painting, he 
loves only what delineates life, deep thought, and 
speaking expression; in music, only what aire£ls the 


r 25 ] 

heart. One of his favourite amusements is skaiting; 
and be has recommended it with enthusiasm. This 
amusement had once nearly proved fatal to him* 
The ice broke, and his life was exposed to Very 
serious danger; but he was saved by his noble 
friend Count Bernstorff/* '■^^^^ 

Klopstock^s merit as a poet is now universally 
ackoowJedged by all who are capable of forming a^y 
judgment on the subjed. His divine songs breathe 
the genuint.spirit of Christianity;, zeal in the "cause 
of truths fervfsnt piety, and a£tive benevolence All 
is grand, sublime, and original. His Messiah has 
raised the fame of his native country in the highest 
department of epic poetry to a level with that of 
every other nation. Such at least is the opinion of 
many excellent critics, who share the regret which 
Klopstock always strongly expressed, that this admi- 
rable work has not been translated into the Englsh 
language in such a manner as it deserves.* From t 

♦ Note by Mr. Cramer*-^! was acquainted with an Eng- 
lishman of the name of Eaton, a young man of an excellent 
understanding, who had made a sufficient progress in the 
German language to understand Klopstock's poetry, and to 
be ao enthusiastic admirer of him. As he had been consul 
at Bassora, and had made many voyages to the Levant, 

[ 26 ] 

the superior qualities of this great poet in the epie 
style^ it is usual to forget his dramatic talents, which 
are allowed to be considerable, though his tragedies 
are more fitted for reading than representation. His 
first tragedy, entitled the Death of Adam, was sue* 
ceeded by two others, entitled Solomon and David; 
and by three dramatic pieces, intended to celebrate 
the German hero Hermann, orArminius» In Horn's 
* Critical History of German Poetry and Eloquence,' 
printed at Berlin in the year 1 803, are the following 
remarks on the chara£ler and the poetical talents of 

*^ We may observe in Klopstock three equally 
^excellent traits of chara£i:er which are displayed in 

Arabic and Persic were as familiar to him as his mother 
tongue. He related to me a singular anecdote respefting the 
e£Fe6t of the Messiah. He once attempted to translate to an 
Arabian priest, as accurately as the great di^erencebetween 
the languages would permit, a passage in a Hymn to Christ. 
He said that it was impossible to describe the attention with 
which the Arab listened to it. At length the blood rose 
into his face; he stood up, and exclaimed with vehemence, 
^< Excellent! but AJlah pardon him for having so highly 
exalted the Son.'' He then begged Mr. Eaton to proceed, 
and again rose hastily, with a sort of indignant admiration^ 
contmually repeating, << Allah pardon him, for having so 
highly exalted the Son.'' 

[ 47 ] 

bis poems-^patriotisni', warmth of ^friendiship,^and 
pure religion 3 and each of these deserves some ob«> 
servati6n5(. The poet appeared in Germany at a 
time, when, unconscious of oiir own powei^s, or at 
Ifeast n^lefting them, we favoured only foreign 
pfodu^lions, and were not restrained from proceed- 
ing in that unworthy condud, even by the insolence 
with which our neighbours received such adulation. 
We had accustomed ourselves to consider the poetical 
compositions of the French as particularly excellent; 
and whilst one person after another repeated this 
opinion, all our atte^ipts were imitations of those 
models; and the bold, national, poetic spirit of former 
times was regarded with contempt. Klopstock alone 
had the courage to awaken the attentionof his, sleep- 
ing countrymen, by his noble compositions, fullofar- 
dour and tenderness; in order that they might resume 
their ancient force and energy, and that calm dignity, 
which confides in itself, and is unwilling to borrow 
from others. He was the man who first animated 
his native land with the spirit to attain to that degree 
of excellence in the higherspecies of poetry, of which 
it was capable, and to which it has already attained. 
** Friendship inspired Klopstock with many of his 
finest Odes. It is a thought which fills us with the 


[ 28 ] 

most pleasing sensations^ that this man,' who must 
have feh so firm a confidence in himself, yet con-- 
stantly lived on the sentiments of friendship, and 
even had the art ofwarming many cooler hearts with 
the overflowings of his afieAion ; and although that 
animated and ardent feeling of friendship should 
sometimes have deceived him, with regard to the 
worth of those on whom he bestowed it, yet even 
they vyho had the least merit amongst them were 
capable of appreciating in some degree his elegant 
and rich mind. 

'^ KIopstock*spiety, in its full extent^ as it influ- 
enced both his heart and his understanding, may 
clearly be discovered in his Odes, entitled, * The 
Omnipotent,* * The Contemplation of God,*&c, 
and in the plan of the Messiah. When we contem- 
plate this last in all its dignity and grandeur, and at 
the same time consider the courage which was re- 
quisite in order to adopt it as the subjefl of an epic 
poem, we shall, even on this account alone, bestow 
on Klopstock the title of a great poet. The reception 
which the Messiah found in Germany, was adequate 
to its merits; we congratulated ourselves on a work 
which the most sacred spirit had inspired, and the 
admiration which was excited by this extraordinary 

C 29 ] 

poet restrained the frivolous eriticisms, with which 
the Gottingea school had presumed to attack his 
work.'* V 

As an additional proof of the justice of these ob- 
servations on the charafter of Klopstock^ I will here 
insert the conclusion of the speech which he pro- 
nounced when he quitted the College in his twenty- 
first year. It shews what were the sentiments which 
animated his heart from youth to age. 

" Piety, and the duty of expressing a thankful 
heart towards thee, O Eternal God, the holiest and 
the sweetest duty, which is imposed on mortal man, 
now animate and inflame my soul; but at the same 
time I am confused at the view of thy majesty ; I 
tremble with holy ajve; and when I would wish to 
say much that should be worthy of Thee, I am speech, 
less. I istand far off with down-cast eyes,astonished 
and immoveable. Yet wherefore do I stand thus ? 
Though I a^n an atom amidst thy works, O thou 
great Creator, I will fall down and worship. The 
paths through which Thou leadest man, can by none 
of us be entirely discovered ; but we find In this 
labyrinth, the wisest order, and the highest degree 
of mercy and love. What wonder do these thoughts 
raise in me ! Th^ soul is averse to receive the con- 

[ 30 3 

vIAion that she cannot contemplate herself without 
being liable to error; but she learns (and that is her 
greatest happiness) that she cannot err, when con- 
vinced of her own ignorance, ^he believes it to be 
the highest wisdom to adore Thee, O thou Holiest of 
Beings! Delighting to be occupied in the contem- 
plation of Thee, she overflows with pure and sacred 
joy, and triumphs in the recolleflion of her dignity 
and immortal destination, glorious in divine light* 
This is the greatest blessing, which Thou, O most 
beneficent of Beings, hast conferred upon me. With 
how much delight and astonishment do I glorify 
that goodness, which has bestowed on me an en- 
lightened mind, and health, by which I am enabled 
attentively to contemplate thy fair creation, O Best 
of Beings, let me so employ these gifts, that I may 
by their aid seriously endeavour to acquire piety and 
virtue. And finally, to the benefits which thou be- 
stowest on my body, O grant stability ; and to those 
which my immortal soul has received, eternity.. 

*^ And you, my most beloved friends, may with 
reason expe£l from me some expression of gratitude; 
since I have acquired much, and much that is ex- 
cellent, in your society. I Rave always attentively 
studied you as a book; I have often dwelt long even 

[ 31 ] 

on the most insigtiiiicant pages^ and have repeatedly 
perused them with such unwearied diligence^ that 
the greatest part of their contents remains for ever 
impressed on my memory. If I read with a strong 
spirit of investigation^ reproach me not; for if it 
were in my power to confer honour on you^ this 
would redound to your honour. Many books weary 
me in the reading; and those must be very excellent 
which I allow myself to read a second time. But 
why should I dwell so long on this comparison ? I 
behold you^ speak to you^ and call you friends. You 
have seen^ and will see^ many in your society^ of 
more exalted talents and learning; but none who 
could more carefully observe your condud^ or more 
delight in your society^ than myself. 

^^ And finally^ my College^ guardian and witness 
of this firicndsHip^ hail to thee ! For ever shall I 
remember thee with gratitude; for ever consider and. 
revere thee as the parent of those works^ which I 
have ventured to commence under thy prote£lion!'' 

The remaining years of the life of Klopstock afford 
few events. In 1 791 > when he was in his sixty^ 
eighth year^ he married Johannah von Wenthem^ 
who was nearly related to his first wife; and much 
of the happiness of his cheerful old age was owing 

C 33 ] ' 

to his union with this lady. To the close of life he 
retained his poetical powers; and his sacred harp 
still sent forth strains of sublime and heartfelt piety. 
Klopstock died at Hamburgh on the 14th of March^ 
1803^ in the 80th year of his age, with a firm ex* 
pedation of happiness beyond the grave. His strong 
feelings of religion shed a lustre on his last moments, 
when he displayed a noble example of what he had 
often sung in his divine poems. He preserved his 
gentle animation, his fervent piety, and the admi- 
rable serenity of his mind till the close of life« To 
the last his heart was as warm as ever^ and the hopes 
which had supported him through all his trials, con« 
tmued unshaken to his last moments. He spoke 
of death with the most cheerful composure. The 
pleasing images of immortality sung by his own 
lofty muse recurred to his mind in the moment of 
trial, and whispered comfort to his spirit as it fled.— 
His soul had been undismayed at the symptoms of 
decay which increased every year. His strength was 
greatly diminished in the winter of 180S, but he 
was still pleased with the visits of his friends. He 
frequently read his Messiah, but *^ think not," he 
once said to a friend, ^^ that I now read it as a poet| 
I only occupy myself with the iJea& it contains/' 

[ 3S ] 

His voice was remarkably pleasing, and he repeated 
his poems with much taste and feeling. To the last 
be loved to speak of his Meta, and pleased himself 
with planting white lilies on her grave, because the 
lily was the most exalted of flowers, and she was th« 
most exalted of women. He did not love to speak 
of the events which have lately disturbed the world, 
but turned the discourse with peculiar pleasure to 
the past scenes of his life. His retentive memory, 
the liveliness of his imagination, and the elegance as 
well as force of his language, made his representation 
of these scenes extremely interesting to his friends. 
In the last weeks of his life he secluded himself 
entirely, even from those who were most dear to 
him. He sent them many kind messages, but 
declined seeing them. Tranquillity of mind, resig- 
nation to the will of God, warm emotions of grati* 
tude for the happiness he had enjoyed in life, gentle 
endurance of the pains of death, a calm prospe£t 
of the grave, and joyful expectations of a higher 
existence, these were now his sensations. The fair 
form of the Angel of Death, the exalted view of a 
better world, which had fired the lofty-minded youth 
to compose his sacred hymns, these now hovered 
round the head of the aged dying saint. In the l^tll 

C S4 ] 

canto of the Messiah^ he has sung the happy close 
of a virtuous life with unparalleled grandeur of de- 
scription. Such christian triumph attended him in 
the hard struggles of dissolution^ which grew more 
painful on a nearer approach. In the last and se* 
verest conflict he raised himself on his couch, folded 
his hands^ and with uplifted eyes pronounced the 
sacred words so finely illustrated in one of his Odes. 
^^ Can a woman forget her child, that she should 
not have pity on the fruit of her womb ? Yes, she 
may forgpt, but I will not forget Thee !" — ^Th« 
struggle was now over, he fell into a gentle slumbei^ 
and awoke no more, ' « 

A sdemn funeral, ^ch as Germany had never 
witnessed for any man of letters before, honoured 
the veiierable remains of Klopstock. The following 
account of theawfql ceremony was written by one of 
his friends, at)id inserted in a Hamburg newspaper, 
dated March 22, 1803. 

'^ At ten o'clock this morning, above seventy 
coaches assembled before the house of the deceased. 
This respeftable train consisted of the 'Diplomatic 
-Corps resident in the circle of Low«r Saxony, the 
Members of, our Senate, the Ministers of our Church, 
the Teachers of the Gypmasium and of St« John'^t 

[ 35 ] 

Literati, Merchants, &c. Notwithstanding the im- 
mense concourse of people, amounting to at least 
fifty thousand in the streets and market-place, all 
interference ^f the police was unnecessary. An uni- 
versal sentiment of awe supplied its plage, and im- 
posed silence on au innumerable multitude of people. 
The procession, preceded and followed by a guard 
of cavalry and infantry sent by the Senate^i followed 
the open hearse, drawn by four horses, on which 
stood the simple cofEn, and proceeded through some 
of the principal streets to the gate which leads to 
Altona. At the gate the body was received by the 
first President of Altona, preceded by ten Marshals, 
and followed by many citizens and inhabitants^ 
among whonl were many Members of the Senate, 
as well as celebrated Literati, foreign Generals, and, 
other persons of distin£lion, Theyjoined the respec- 
table train from Hamburg, in the following order. 
An escort of Hussars. Two Marshals in carriages, 
with a train of forty-five coaches. Between the 
Marshals went three young ladies dressed in white, 
crowned with oak leaves and white roses, and car-- 
rying wreaths of roses, myrtle, and laurel. The 
procession passed through the principal streets of 
Altona, to ^he grave in the church-yard of the 


D 2 

[ 36 ] 

village of Ottenscn. The corpse was every where 
met by open demonstrations of respefl and love^ 
and of grief for such an irreparable loss. The 
guards by whom the procession passed in both 
lowiis^ paid military honours^ and the ships in the 
harbour had moiiming flags. When the procession 
arrived at the grave, where it was received by 
^usic of wind instruments muffled, the coffin was 
taken off the hearse, carried into the chiirch, and 
placed before the altar. The noble po«m of the 
Messiah was laid on the coffin. A young man 
stepped forward, and covered the open book with 
a laurel crown, while the young ladies from 
Altona laid theirs on the bier. Then began the 
musical celebration performed by above an hun- 
dred musicians, together with many female sin^- 
gers from dUTerent families in Hamburg. Stanzas 
and chorusses out of Klopstock*s paraphrase of the 
Pater Noster, and his spiritual songs set to music by 
Romberg and others, and out of Mozart's mourning 
cantata, resounded through the aisles, and added a 
melting solemnity to the scene. During a pause in 
the music, Dr. Meyer took the book from the coffin, 
and read, from the 12th canto of the Messiah, the. 
desQoption of ihedeatb of Mary the sister of Lazarus, 

C »7 ] 

comfbrUng, animating images of death and immor- 
tality which had hovered round the death-bed of the 
pious Poet I exalted thoughts of religion with which 
his soul departed from this world I Then burst forth 
the chorus. '^ Arise, verily thou shalt arise!'' 
during which the coffin was taken up and carried 
into the church-yard, and after every sacred rite was 
performed, it was let down into the grave. 

*^ A noble lime-tree overshadows it. Flowers, the 
firstlings of the new awakened spring, were scattered 
over it. Peace, heavenly peace, shall hover over 
this beloved grave. Ye men of future generations, 
men of genuine taste and feeling, ye will make a 
pilgrimage to this grave, and pay to the manes of a 
man who was the glory of his age^ and the pride of 
his nation, the offering of admiration and gratitude, 
which we his friends and contemporaries by this 
day's ceremony can but faintly express for our dear 
departed friend/' 

The letters which the Jklitor had the honour of 
receiving from the venerable Dr. Mumssen of 
Altona, to whom she was indebted for almost the 
whole of the following colle&ion, will furnish some 

[ 3,8 ] 

interesting particulars with regard to the cha- 
racter of Klopstock; and it is presumed that they 
will be more acceptable to the reader^ if presented in 
their original form. 


Altonaf near Hamburgh 
Madam, ' 1th Sept. 1804. 

I Think myself highly honoured by your letter. It 
came from a delightful island,* which, though many 
years ago, I remember well. It was about this time' 
of the year when I visited it, the evening sun and 
tKe harvest moon appearing in direct opposition 
above the horizon, on our walk to Carisbrook Castle. 
I could have built my chateau en Espagne in that 
island, and have made it my residence for ever. 

When I observed in the papers the publication of 
Kichardson's correspondence, Mrs. Klopstock's 
letters occurred to my thoughts, for I remember 
Richardson's answers. 

♦ The Isle of Wight. 

[ 39 ] ^ 

Very willingly will I look out for such materials 
as you desire for your friend, if I can meet witK 
such as will be proper for the present time and taste, 
Klopstock certainly deserves to be more known to the 
English, not only for his extraordinary genius as a 
sublime poet, but also for his private virtues and 
amiable charader, for he was the most agreeable 
companion in private life, and bis conversation was 
pleasant to all ranks and to every age : an excellent 
classic, and a great scholar in every branch of phi^ 
losophy. I have lived above forty-five years in in- 
timate and uninterrupted friendship with him. I 
owe to him some of my honourable connexions in 
the world; and having been so lucky as to meet with 
him in my youth, I reaped great benefit from fol- 
lowing his principles and moral rectitude. Besides 
his Messiah and Odes, &c. he has published several 
philological writings, in which he appears as a gram- 
marian; and as such, the German language owes to 
Wm her resurre6lion from the barbarous ages. They 
suppose a reader versed in all the Northern as well as 
Greek and Latin diale<!rls; and you may judge that 
even among scholars^ the number of such as can pro- 
'fit or be entertained by them cannot be considerable. 
-I remember that my for ever dear and lamented 

ijriend Chaxles* had begun to translate some of his 
Odes; he who was master of both languages ; but 
I do not know what is become of them. They are 
no where to be found. All that I can send you at 
present is a colleftion of Margaretta Klopstock's 
letters^ &c. and a Le£ture delivered last year at Qued- 
linburg^ his native place> containing particulars of 
his education. &c. &c. 

P. S. You will excuse when Iwrite not correftly; 
being so long parted from England^ where once I 
thought myself at home. 


Jlionoy 1th Nov. 1804. 
I Will hope, dear Madam, that before this letter 
comes to hand you will have received the materials 
relating to our divine poet. Should I be so happy 
to discover any thing more, you shall have it; and in 
a deluge of books and pamphlets, should something 
really beautiful and worth your notice appear, which 

? Charles Hanbury, esq. This excellent young man died 
in the year 1783. 

[ 41 ] 

might please you and your young friend^ or ao^ 
commodate the taste of the English, I will very wiU 
lingly fofward it to you,— 1 have lately been well 
entertained by a drama, PolyxenCy worthy of the 
true spirit of the ancients, — ReguluSi by Collin^ an 
officer in the Imperial service, and Wilhelm Telly by 
Schiller, I c^n recommend as produd:ions promoting 
virtue and religion. 

I am in these long 6|renings reading Hume's 
History of England^ and find very little consolation 
in comparing the times of Charles 1st, and those of 
Louis XVI th. There is so much resemblance, that 
i^ wpuld surprise many who no more recoiled the 
times past. The Revolution in England has at the 
end proved beneficial to your country. What will 
be the consequence of that which we have seen^ 
God alone knows ! &c. 


Altona^ £d Jiihfi 1805. 
I Am charmed to find that you and your friend 
are pleased with the materials I have sent« Go on 

[ 42 ] 

in your laudable endeavour^ in spite of those cold 
bypercitics^ that are a sad race of men every where. 

Fanny is the poetical name of Miss Schmidt, a 
near relative of Klopstock. He never declared bit 
passion to her^ for there was no prospe£i of a nearer 
union* She was afterwards married to a gentleman 
whose name I do not remember. The gentle youth, 
in the prime of life, inspired by religion, and in love 
with Fanny, applied in vain to Bodmer at Zurich for 
an employment. These letters are lately published^ 
mid though certainly not intended for the press, they 
do honour to the feelings of bis heart and the ardour 
of his mind. I intend to send you these letters by 
the first traveller whom I can entrust with the charge* 

We have as yet no biography of Klopstock to my 
mind. Professor Cramer (son to the late Chan- 
cellor of the University of Kiel, Klopstock*s intimate 
friend, he that published the Nordische Aufseher, a 
periodical paper in imitation of your Speftator) 
would be the proper person, being acquainted froiti 
his youth with Klopstock. He lives at Paris, and I 
remember that he collected many curious circum- 
stances concerning that extraordinary genius. 

Cidli is an imaginary name from the Messiah. 
Klopstock gave that name to Jairus's daughter. 

C 48 3 

and that of Semlda to the youth of Nain. See the 
Episode in the Messiah. In his Odes he gives thia 
name to his beloved Margaret Moller. Meta is 
Margaretta contra6i:ed, 

KIopstock'« principal occupation was that of a 
grammarian, thecomparative study of languages with 
regard to the German. I who saw him every day 
when in Hamburg, found him always in pursuit 
of whatever is noble, sublime, and beautiful. He 
was a most agreeable companion. We used to call 
him ^^ den ewigen Jungling,'* the youth /or ever I 
He has lived free,t all his life time^ and has 
recommended liberty on all occasions. His Bardits 
were intended to rouse the Germans from their apa- 
thy, and to inspire them and their princes, even the 
Emperor Joseph himself, with the love of their 
country. Alas 1 he was much deceived in these 

hopes. Things have taken a different turn.- He 

kept up his gentle spirit, his religious principles, and 
his serenity of mind, till the end of his life. His ob- 
sequies were like those of a great and virtuous prince. 
Hamburg and Altona joined in the funeral pomp* 
Mozart's Requiem, and some of his own sacred 

f Independent. 

[ 44 ] 

hymns, were sung in the church of Ottensen, where 
ke was interred under the beautiful lime tree 
planted on Meta*s grave forty years ago, and which 
I have every day before my eyes, I was present 
when it was planted. 

This mornrng, July 2d, Klopstock's birth-day, 
some friends came to strew flowers on his grave, 
Mrs. Hanbury will assemble his old friends at 
Flotbech, where I am going to celebrate his memory, 
for ever dear and sacred 1 

One of our friends last year read a ]e£lure before 
an assembly on some of his Odes, in which he foU 
lowed the progress of his genius through the several 
stages of life. It is in German, but as it may gin 
pleasure and entertainment to your friend, I will 
send it with the letters above-mentioned. Should 
I succeed in finding more materials, I will take care 
to send them in time^ 


^ItojiUyJuly 24, 1805. 
A Gentleman of Hamburg will be so good to 
forward to you the pamphlet mentioned in my last 

[ 4* J 

letter, which as it contains the letters written by oUf 
divine poet to Bodmer will give pleasure both to - 
your friend and yourself. These letters will certainly 
adorn your collefition, and shew the world the de* 
licacy of his mind, and the virtue and magnanimity 
of his heart. I have not yet been able to procure 
the manuscript of another friend, which will illut* 
trate the progress of his genius through the diiferent 
periods of his life. I hope to send you the Epitaph 
written by Count Frederick Leopold Stolberg, which 
is to be engraved on the tomb-stone. Professor 
Cramer, whose name I mentioned in my letter^ 
published twenty years ago a work entitled ^^ Klop* 
stodk, his person, his manners, and charafler.** 
Should your friend be curious to have it, I may send 
it by another traveller. &c. 


Altona^ Sept. 16, 180^. 

I Have the honour to acknowledge the receipt of 

your very kind letter, and think myself very happy 

m the approbation which the materials relating tQ 

Klopstock's chara^er have met with by yourself and 



C 46 ] 

your amiable friend. Nothing can equal the plea- 
sure I feel, that under your auspices the author of 
the Messiah will obtain justice in a nation that pro- 
duced a Milton. 

I hare desired mv bookseller in Hamburg to 
procured and direft to you, Cramer's ^' Klopstock er 
und iiber ihn." You will find in it very interesting 
particulars. You will, besides this, and probably in 
a few days, receive the small pamphlet composed by . 
Hutwalker, a senator of Hamburg. The author, 
who was very intimate with Klopstock and his 
writings, has tried to trace the different stages of jthe 
divine poet's aftivity as near as possible from his 
own words. Mr. Hutwalker not intending this essay 
for the public, but only for Klopstock's friends, it 
may be regarded as a manuscript, and it will per- 
haps be found of service to your design. 

A near neighbour and mo?t intimate friend of 
Klopstock, and thoroughly acquainted with all his 
writings, has given me the names of those letter 
writers which you are curious to know.* 

All these, except Mr. Funke, and the Countess 
Dowager Bemstoiff, at Weimar, are now no more. 

• These will appear in their proper placed.. 

C *7 } 


Oiieof Klopstock's brothers, Mr, ViAbr Klopttock, 
lives in Hamburg. The epitaph will soon follow. 

The political state of Europe has taken another 
turn. T he fate of Germany, should it come 

to a continental war^ will be dreadful. 

I recommend you^ dear Madam, and your country, 
and all our friends^ to God Almighty^ in whom 
we trust for ever, &c. 

Saturday last, September 98, the tomb-stone^ of 
white Carrara marble was placed on the grave of 
our divine poet. It is crowned by two sheaves, and 
underneath a verse of the Messiah — 

« Seed sown by God, to ripen for the day of harrest.'* 

In a niche the Celestial Muse, in one arm the cross, 
her hand on an urn, her eyes and the other hand 
direded towards heaven,. Alto relievo. 


By the side of his Meta and his child, rests 


He was bom July 2d, 1724. 

He died March 14, 1803. 

Germans, approach vdth veneration and love 

the relics of ypur greatest poet* 

[ 48 ] 

Approach, ye Christians, with grief and heavenly joy, 

the resting place of the sacred songster. 

Whose song, — ^life, — and death, — praised Jesus Christ. 

He sung to men, in human strains, the Eternal, 

the Divine Mediator. 

Near the Throne is placed his great reward, 

A ^Golden Holy Cup filled with Christian tears. 

. His second loving and beloved Spouse, 
Erefted this marble to the Guide of her Youth, her Friend, 

her Husband. 
She waits in tears the hour, that will, where death shall be no 
more, where the Lord will wipe off the tears of his beloved^ 
unite her with him, and those whom she loved. 
Adore Himj who for us lived, died, and 
arose from the dead* 


Altonay Oct. 29, 1805. 

WHEN I lately sent you the Epitaph, time would 

not permit me to accompany it with some observa^ 

tions. The first four lines are indeed excellent. 

What follows is certainly honourable to him, and 

C 49 ] 

well expressed^ but it will not be intelligible to many. 
The passage regarding the golden cup, relates to one 
of Klopstock's Odes, inscribed '* To the Redeemer/* 
All who are unacquainted with those sublime poems, 
will be unable to judge of what is meant. 

The navigation is now restored again] 
I wish it may remain soy < Buonaparte has 

destroyed and taken almost the whole Austrian army. 
Unpardonable faults have been committed; and if 
no unknown hero arises, all will end in another and 
more ignominious peace. The misery of those 
countries that are become the seat of war is beyond 
expression. After a bad harvest the unhappy in- 
habitants will be deprived of every support. With 
sincere regard, and hearty wishes of happier times, I 
have the honour, &c. 


Altona^ Nov, 26, 1805. 
'I Sincerely wish, dear Madam, that your amiable 

friend may be entirely recovered ; and m her conva- 
lescence I hope she will take proper care of herself 


[ 50 ] 

in this cold season, in order to become your assistant 
again in your honourable undertaking. My book- 
seller has sent Cramer's book. &c. &c. Whatever 
shall occur worthy of your attention, and fit for your 
design, will be sent by me from time to time. 

Britannia has obtained a glorious vifiory, and the 
Admiral ended nobly, and according to his wishes ; 
but Germany is ruined. Buonaparte, not a son of 
the waves, though born in an island, like Anteus 
the son of the earth, is invincible on th^ Continent; 
no Hercules appears to grasp him in his arms, and 
lift hith from the ground. The capital of Austria 
is at his mercy. He has summoned the iiobles of 
Hungary to Vienna, or to have their estates forfeited 
to the conqueror. May God have mercy on us in 
this part of the world; and may you, and all that 
are dear to you, enjoy health and happiness in your 
blessed island. 


Altona, July 6, 1806. 
IT is a long while, dear Madam, that I have no 
account either of yourself, or of our dear friends at 

t ^1 ] 

Portsmouth, May you live in happiness, and enjoy 
all the blessings derived/rom religious principles and 

good intentions. ^The last winter has deprived 

me of two very dear friends — but not for ever ! 

Mrs, Klopstock has favoured me with part of a 
correspondence between Klopstock andMetaMoller, 
written in the year 1752, when they were promised 
to each other, and lovers in that period of life wheil 
the fire of imagination appears in its clearest and 
most sparkling light. You will be pleased with 
them, and admire with us, in the happy pair, the ele- 
vation of mind, the purity of their innocent passion^ 
and their religious sensibility, far above the common 
conception, comprehensible only by minds like 
theirs, superior in virtue, candour, and ingenuity, 

I perfeAly agree with you about the times, and 
with regard to your late illustrious Minister. The 
late Count BernstorfT, and all my noble friends in 
the diplomatic line, unanimously gave him a great 
character. He loved his country, and remained tme . 
to his principles from the beginning to the end. He 
might perhaps have been better acquainted with the 
whole continental state. j^y > 

Most fortunately, and to my great pleasure, your 
sister is arrived here from Italy. I passed yesterday 

E 2 

f 62 3 

in her company at Mrs. Hanbury's, where I might 
wish to see you all united^ if such a scheme could 
be realized in this world. It will be our happiness 
in a better state, that those who agree in the love of 
truth and .virtue, will not be separated, as we now 
are, by such difficulties. 

I remain, with true respeft and affedion, &c. 





LangensalzUy Aug. 10, 1748, 

I Should long since have written to you, my dear 
Bodmer, had I not been deterred by the praise 
with which you loaded me in your letter to Gartner. 
Unaccustomed to behold the threshold of OIympuS| 
on which you placed me, I was overcome with shame. 
To have returned thanks, would have seemed as if I 
thought myself worthy of that for which I thanked 
you. As I believe you to be a good man, and to 
have spoken sincerely, so I would wish you to believe 
that I am sincere, and that I do not say any thing 

[ 54 ] 

out of feigned modesty. Let me therefore pass over 
this subjeft, and leave you to defend your opinion 
of me before the tribunal of critics. I will now tell 
you, — but hear me as a father hears his son, — how 
I not only reverence but love you; and whal great 
services you have, unknown to yourself, already done 
me. When yet a boy, reading Homer and Virgil, 
and enraged at the German commentators, your 
criticisms and Breitenger's came into my hands. 
Having once read, or rather devoured them, they 
were always at my left hand, to be continually turned 
over while Homer and Virgil were at my right. 
How often I then wished, and still wish, for your 
promised Treatise on the Sublime ! — But Milton, 
whom perhaps T should too late have seen, if you 
had not translated him, when accidentally he fell 
into my hands, blew up at once the fire which had 
been kindled by Homer, and raised my soul to 
Heaven, and the poetry of religion. Often did I 
then behold the image of an epic poet, such as you 
have described in your critical poem, and I looked at 
it, as Cflesar on the bust of Alexander, in tears j— 
how often then, 

<< Cum spes arredlae juvenum, exultantiaque haui*it 
" Corda payor pulsans." Vir«. 

[ 55 ] 

Such are your services to me, but faintly sketched. 
Yet greater (if you please) remain. The Messiah is 
scarce begun. If what I have sung deserve your 
attention^ I shall sing greater, things hereafter. 

" Major rerum mihi nascitur ordo, 
" Majus opus moveo/* Virg. 

But I want leisure; and being of a very weak con- 
stitution, and probably short-lived, I have even now 
but little hope of finishing the poem. A laborious 
employment awaits me; with which oppressed, what 
can I sing worthy of the Messiah ? My native coun- 
try neither cares, nor will care for me; but see the 
road I have found out, by which, if you would go 
before me, I feel as if I might conquer fortune. 
There was amongst you a poet. Van Haarer, whom 
without doubt you know; he is in great favour with 
the Prince of Orange, who is said to be generous 
and magnanimous. What if he should give me a 
pension ? If you can do anything to assist me in this 
business, excellent Bodmer, I know you will do it 
but not as asking in my name ; for I would not beg 
my fortune of princes, though I would of Bodmer, 

I will now, trusting to the strictest secrecy, intro- 
duce you to the interior of my most sacred thoughts. 

[ 56 ] 

I love a tender holy maid, to whom my third Ode Is 
addressed, with the most tender holy love ; but she 
IS not accessible to me, nor likely to be so, for for- 
tune separates us widely. Yet without her I am 

miserable. By Milton's shade, by thine own 

blessed infants, by thy own great soul, I adjure thee, 
Bodmer, make me happy, if thou canst! Farewell; 
salute most kindly in my name Breitenger, Hingel, 
and that good man to whom you inscribed an ode. 

This is written August 10, 1748, at Langensalza 
in Thuringia, where I am instrufiing the son of a 
merchant, named Weiss, (who will be a poet not 
unworthy of my pains;) where the greater part of 
my family reside, (more opulent than my parents;) 
where dwells that heavenly girl whom I love, the 
daughter of my mother's brother. Whatever you 
think likely to be the event, whether there is any 
hope or not, write to me as soon as possible; that 
my soul, struck by powerful love, love which is but 
faintly traced in my Odes, for it was Impossible to 
express it, may either be relieved from her anxiety^ 
or totally depressed. The last would be more to- 
lerable to me than this troubled sea of uncertaiii 
thoughts. Farewell, and love me. 

r 47 ] 



Sept. 27, 1748. 
IT U a glorious reward for my poems^ to hear 
from one of the best of men that he is my friend. 
How tenderly have yoi^ sympathised in my uneasi- 
ness ! T used to have so much greatness of mind as 
not to be miserable; and now that I am so^ I find a 
friend who calls me back into myself; but yet I 
return with lingering steps, continually looking back« 
The sorrows of lore are so great, that they deserve 
to have such power over me. She whom I love is 
now more cruel to me than when I first wrote to you. 
Yet yourJettcr, the consciousness that my love is 
exalted and pure, and my sense of religion, prevent 
my being completely miserable. She knows but 
little of my sentiments, or if she has discovered them, 
she does not let me know it, but she is capable of 
feeling them all. How would she feel your letter, 
if I had courage to read it to her; and if she loved 
me, how would she look on me, with those eyes so 

[ 58 ] 

full of soul ! She has a certain chara£ler of beauty 
that distinguishes her from all others; I can no 
otherwise describe it to you at present, than by saying 
that it cxa6tly corresponds with what I have said of 
her in my songs. Perhaps Laura, who so thirsted 
for immortality, was like her. Radichen belonged 
to this order of beauties, though she wjas not like 
her. She is thus described in my Ode. 

^' She is young and beautiful. — Unlike the flut- 
tering troop of rosy maids, who thoughtless bloom, 
by nature carelessly formed, in sportive mood ; of 
feeling void, and void of mind, void of the all- 
powerful, all-subduing look of soul, the emanation 
of divinity. 

*' She is young and beautifuL Her every move- 
ment speaks the heavenly temper of her mind ;, and 
worthy, — ;ah ! most worthy of immortal fame, she 
steps in lofty triumph forth, serene as the unruflied 
air, bright as the dawn, full of simplicity as na- 
ture's self/' 

r know not whether He whose will decrees me 
so much suffering, sees here no happiness for me, 
where I imagine so much; or whether, foreseeing 
that I am not yet capable of bearing such joy. He 
gives me timeHo grow more calm. Thus much I 

£ 59 ] 

know— T cannot change the slightest stroke on his 
eternal tables^ and I find much comfort in submit'^ 
ting myself to Him. I know too, that to her whom 
I love so inexpressibly, I wish with my whole 
heart the purest happiness^ — even if she love me 
not again. You see I make you the confidant of my 
most secret thoughts, ^y other friends know no- 
thing of my sufferings; even to my dear Schmidt I 
have said very little on the subjed:. 

I have communicated to my friends at Leipsic 
your proposal about the subscription. I expe6l to 
have the fourth and fifth cantos ready by Easter. 
The first five cantos would make a volume. But 
with all your doubts^ do you not still entertain too 
favourable an opinion of our nation ? I believe they 
will need to be ofieft awakened, before they will 
even observe that my Messiah is in existence. 

You intend to review the Messiah in the language 
of Tasso. It is a great satisfaftion to me to be made 
known to t he admirers of Tasso and Michael Angelo. 
In ray youth I never could hear the name of Tasso 
without reverence; and to see Michael Angelo's 
pifture of the Last Judgment, I would travel alone to 
Rome. Send me the review as soon as it is printed ; 
every line of approbation from you is pectiliarly pre- 

C 60 ] 

cious to me. A. perhaps too proud aversion to 

dedications is the cause that I beg you to consider 
whether it would not be best to send the Messiah 
with a private letter to the Prince of Wales;* and 
perhaps this might be more conveniently and more 
effcflually done by a stranger than by the author. 
Open your thoughts to me on this subjedl as freely 
as I write mine to you, and tell me whether you 
would undertake the task. 

The versification of the Messiah will offend many. 
I see it will take them a long time to find out that 
German hexameters in themselves, and particularly 
in a long poem, are more harmonious and sonorous 
than German Iambics. Those who are unacquainted 
with Homer will not be able to find their way; and 
yet nothing is Required of them but to place Hit 
same accent on the words of an hexameter that they 
would place on the words of an harmonious period 
in an oration. Some readers of Homer, who resem- 
ble the Grammarian Crist in Leipsic, will take it 
amiss of the German language that it is not the 
Greek language, and prescribe to the German hex- 
ameter the rules of the Homerian. These people 
give general rules for the length and shortness of 
* ^Frederick Prince of Wales. 

, [ «l ] 

syllables according to the Greek language, instead 
of which they should gife them according to our 
own language. ■ 

My love of an harmonious verse has led me to 
this digression. This is the reason too why I intend 
to alter many of my verses, and to be in future more 
attentive to harmony. 

I send you another Ode, the produceof my Iovc» 
She who could best reward it has not seen it^ so 
timid does her apparent insensibility make me. I 
never proposed to myself to write Odes, and yet it 
has so happened that I have made several. This 
however might be pardonable, if I had not exposed 
myself to the danger of appearing on the same 

theatre with Lange. 

Thcverses beneath the Ode are from the fifth 
book of the Messiah. They appear to me worthy of 
remark, because my beloved critic made 'me read 
them several times over to her. It would take too 
much room here to tell you the connexion in which 
they stand. 

What is become of the excellent Klcist? Have 
his few hours of leisure drawn nothing more from 
his pen ? I love him from my heart. I well re- 
member those hours, — it was a fine afternoon in 

[ 62 1 

Autiitxin^-^when hearing his poems read made me 
BO pensive. The afternoon was followed by an 
evening of the purest delight, I have passed many 
such evenings with my friends, but they arc all over 
now, and I am left to the lonely sorrows of love. I 
was that evening full of happiness ; and. indeed the 
acquisition of a new friend deserved it. This even- 
ing reminds me of that on which Gartner took 
leave of us when I had only just begun to know 
him, and with him his friends. In an Ode on my 
friends are these stanzas on thatsubje£t. 

^* In thoseMast hours ere thou didst part from us, 
(to me that evening shall be ever sacred !) I learnt, 
my friend, how virtuous souls, how the few virtuous, 
love each other. 

*' Full many an evening hour is yet in store,— 
ye future sons of men, pass them not lonely; to 
friendship consecrate those happy hours, and be your 
fathers your example." 

Gartner probably will not pass by Zurich to 
Geneva. He is separated from the Count, with 
whom he was to have travelled. He is a liberal- 
minded man, but very conscientious. 

Tell those worthy gentlemen who have so much 
compassion for Abbadona, that I am myself so 

C 63 ] 

concerned for his fate, that I scarcely have sufficient 
power over my heart to submit to the strift justice 
which is higher than our hearts. However, his 
story will not, I think, any where lay too strong 
hold on their tenderness. He is placed there for 
the glory of the Messiah. 

How happy shall I be, if by the completion of the 
Messiah I may contribute somewhat to the glory 
of our great and divine religion ! How sweet and 
transporting is this idea to my mind ! That is my 
great reward ; and you, my dearest friend, point i^ 
out to me at a distance. I must here leave off. 
Midnight approaches, and I must give myself up to 
my silent sorrow and my tears. May my lovely 
friend yet take that share in them which your letter 
bids me hope. Farewell ! 


My dbarest Friend, 

Oct. 19, 1748. 

HOW deeply am I affeded by 'all your generous 

exertions in my behalf; and how well do you deserve 

[ 6* ] 

the wholefriendship of my heart! If yoii feel that you 
aft nobly when you seek fortune for me as a means 
of happiness to yourself, I feel as strongly that I 
love you tenderly ; and that any piece of good for- 
tune which you may receive from the hand of Pro- 
vidence and bring to me, will be doufcly precious 
in my eyes. The divine poet Young says in his 
Night Thoughts, as well as I can remember the 
passiage, ^* O God, thou hast made the world glo- 
rious around Thee ! Thou hast brought forth the 
stars in their marvelous circles ; but one tear of the 
virtuous, shed for the unfortunate, is greater than 
all these."* 

I am sure you know me so well, that you will 
not accuse me of a want of manly spirit in misfor- 
tune. My. misfortune, indeed, consists only in this, 
that some outward circumstances disturb me in the 

* I cannot find the passage in the Night-Thoughts to 
which Mr. Klopstock alludes. He says that he quotes by 
memory, and possibly he had an imperfedl recolledion of the 
following lines, near the conclusion of the Sixth Night." 

"These are ambition's worka, and these are great; 

" But this, the least Immortal souls can do.' 

" Transcend them all. But what can these transcend? 

<« Dost ask me what? — One sigh for the distress'd.*' 

[ 65 ] 

possession of what! call happiness^ (I take out of 
this account the pains of love;) but my eye is al- 
ready accustomed to these prospers, and I do not 
boast of any great courage when I say that from a 
youth I have calmly and steadily looked my fate in 
the face. My parents who are very upright, had 
property, but without their fault they are become 
poor. Since they have no longer been able to 
provide for me, my dearest friend Schmidt has 
supported me in the noblest manner. I have often 
observed the footsteps of Divine Providence in thg 
midst of my ill-fortune, and adored them. Know- 
ing this Providence, can I yet talk of misfortunes ? 
I must be silent ; but this I may say, that I very 
often wish for that sacred leisure, which I would 
gladly dedicate entirely to • the completion of the 
Messiah. I wish for this leisure to enable me to 
express my thoughts immediately as they arise, and 
in the first warmth of their youth. I must now, 
being disturbed, content myself with writing down 
some imperfc£l traces of these thoughts, and some 
few marks by which I may afterwards find them 
again; but perhaps I shall never find them again 
in the same point of view, and with the same 
extent of prospe &, as at first. You will easily see 


[ 6« 3 

that many other things in my poem depend on 
leisure. But I leave this also to Providence. 


N(W. 5, 1748. 
I Have waited hitherto that I might be enabled to 
tell you something decisive of my love^ but this I 
cannot yet do. Your letter to Miss Schmidt, which 
I shall ever preserve as a memorial of my perhaps 
unhappy passion, I have not given to her. Much as 
it delighted me, much as I wished to be able to give 
it her, and much as she herself would have prized 
it, I had not courage, I have sent it to her bro- 
ther, to whom I have laid open my whole heart. 
He had previously written me a very afle6)ionate 
letter. He had told mc that this love was what he 
had long in secret wished. He says, amongst 
other things, 

^ My friend, I knew thy heart, I knew the Maiden's 


<< And therefore secretly I ask'd of Heav'n to make 
her thine,'* 


[ 67 ] 

He then telis me a little story, from .which it 
appears that I am too timid. The most agreeable 
circumstance is that his sister hajd curiosity enough 
to break open the letter which was inclosed to her. 
Since I sent him your letter^ he has written to me 
with uncommon afle£lion. He is really an admi- 
rable young man. He says my precious tears for 
bis sister, and the interest which the whole future 
world will take in my favour, make him look on my 
love with reverential awe. I will not send you a 
large extra& from his long letter. I will only tell 
you that he intends to write to his sister without 
disguise, and to send her your letter. I know not 
whether I can venture in the interim to give her the 
Alcaic Ode which I now send you. Happy should 
I be^ if I could have expressed in it all the sen- 
timents of my heart ! O how has this heavenly 
maiden captivated my whole soul !— But I will say 
no more of her, le^ I should express myself more 
feebly than I have done in the Ode. 

Ebert has translated Leonidas. The story of 
Teribazus and Ariana has taken such hold on me, 
that I seem to myself like the marble image on a 
hero's tomb-stone. 

F 2 

[ 68 ] 

You will find among the latter pieces in this 
packet an Elegy, in which I was already thinking of 
my Fanny. About the same time, that is about a 
year ago, I also composed the enclosed Ode to Ebert^ 
as far as to the lines addressed to you. I will here 
break off my letter, as I am unwilling again to 
delay my answer. Perhaps it will not be much 
longer before I may be able to tell you something 
decisive. If you love me, my dearest friend, pray 
Heaven to grant me my love. I should without 
her be as unhappy as I am capable of being. 


Dec.Qd, 1748. 
I Write to you again to tell you that the fate of 
my love appears continually more doubtful. What 
a string of trifles, which however are far from being 
trifles to me, must I write to enable you to judge 
with any degree of certainty. I gave her this last 
Alcaic Ode when taking leave after a yisit. I have 
since spoken to her again. If I except a little con- 
fusion, a slight blush, and some almost tender looks, 
I do not know what impression the Ode has made* 

[ 69 ] 

If I did not know how uncommonly delicate are all 
her feelings, and if she were not aware how well I 
know it ; if I were not acquainted with every little 
turn of her opinidn on poems of similar import ; 
but I will say no more, — I would rather be silent, 
since I cannot entertain you with an Iliad's length 
of these dear trifles. I must await my fate, though I 
have never yet found any thing more difficult; 

Qualis populea mcerens philomela sub umbra 
Flet noftem. 

You wish to kno^ the effeft of the Ode on Salem. 
My timidity delayed to giv^ it her, and now I would 
not willingly present it after a much finer Ode. 

I send you a copy of Haller's letter. I have kept 
the original, for what purpose you will easily guess. 
The better to understand the letter, you must know 
that I was before in correspondence with Haller, and 
that he had already, as became so worthy a man, 
taken some trouble in Hanover to promote my for- 
tune by procuring me an employment. Having 
declared that I would rather preside in a school than 
in an university, for nature has denied me the voice 
of an orator, the last account I received was that I 
must apply to Gessner, who would recommend me 

t 70 ] 

to Wenthoff; but I will not owe the smallest obli- 
gation to a man who is not ashamed of offending 
Haller. The Messiah may perhaps make my for- 
tune with the Prince of Wales, if it should become 
known to Glover and Mallet, who have great weight 
with the Prince. 

Since I am so happy as to be allowed to lay open 
all my little concerns to you, I must tell you that it 
has been hinted to me that it would not be unpleasant 
if after Easter I gave up my Tutorship. When love 
was my chief motive for coming here, I did not con- 
sider it so necessary to undertake such employments 
as I must do, if obliged to leave this situation with- 
out any other asylum. The change of my fortune 
through the means of Princes and Princesses is very 
uncertain. May I therefore venture to propose to 
you another trouble on my behalf? I have heard 
from a bookseller here, that a bookseller of Edangen 
has enquired after me from him, in the name of the. 
Academy, You know Mr, Le Maitre in Erlangen, 
I know not what could be the viewsof the Academy, 
but I will tell you mine. I should wish for an ex- 
traordinary professorship of some one of the liberal 
sciences, Rhetoric or Poetry in preference, with a 
stipend that should free me from the necessity of 

[ 71 ] 

earning the greater part of my living myself, which 
would fall very hard on me; and I particularly wish 
for this in an academy whose number is not yet very 
great. I might undertake such a post, till an op« 
portunity more favourable to my leisure occurred; 
for I am rather fearful that my poetic years will be 
sooner over than those of others. At least they 
probably will not extend to that age when Milton's 

Your Sketch of the Sublime I have formerly read. 
The wish I expressed to you extended to a further 
finishing of that sketch. I think it is worthy of you 
to surpass the great Lohginus. But what would 
you do for examples, if you had not the inimitable 
Prophets? If you can trust Kleist's poem on the 
Spring to a transcriber, I know that you will not deny 
me the pleasure of reading it after so many pains. 
I also want to know whether the author of Noah, 
*' who has the key that unlocks my heart,*' will 
finish his poem; and when and by whom Moses, 
which is mentioned in the friendly letters, was written? 

<* Come^ golden age; come thou who seldom deign'st 
'< To visit man, creative Genius, come ! 

" Eternity's best child 

*« Spread over us thy radiant wipg." • 

E 7« ] 

I would send what I have ready of the Messiah^ 
but that is not j^et returned to me from Leipsic* 
Ebert is gone to Gartner at Brunswick, and he has 
probably taken it with him. None of our friends 
remain at Leipsic, except Gcllert and Rabener. 

The Lpist Judgment is thus introduced into the 
Messiah. Adam is with the arising saints. He is 
made to enquire of the Messiah concerning the fate 
of his race, and at his own request will see a vision 
of the Judgment. The Catholics need fear no dis- 
turbance from me. Decide whether the following 
simile contradids what I have just said. I can at 
all events leave it out. 

So Satan spake: 

His heart was full of blackest thoughts; 
Deform'd and hideous was his inmost soul. 
The sinful spirit's most concealed recess. So lie 
Before the face of God the 'gloomy vaults 
Of th' Iberian Inquisition. Wall on wall. 
Abyss upon abyss, deep in the earth, 
And full of stiffening streams of guiltless blood:— 
Now the destroying Judge beckons his murderers; 
The iron doors re-echo to the depths 
Below, the cries of innocence to Heaven, 


C 73 ] 

Oh! could a Christian see these vaults of bloody 
Would he not look with fury on the judge, 
And clasp his hands, and weep, and cry to God 
For justice? 

May I beg of you one thing which may perhaps 
appear to betray a little vanity: if it were so, I would 
frankly acknowledge it; but it is not that; it is love. 
Love bids me beg of you to send me the Italian 
review of the Messiah while I remain here. Perhaps 
the divine Maiden may smile upon those trophies. 


96th Jan. 1749. 
My Dearest Friend, 
AT a time when the Minister in Hanover is se- 
riously meditating, whether it would really be for the 
advantage of his Britannic Majesty's hereditary do- 
minions to give me some decent and not very laborious 
office; when the Messiah is perhaps lying in the 
anti-chamber where stands the bust of Pope, where 
Glover often passes; when it is, perhaps, because 

[ 74 1 

not yet banclsomely printed, laid aside by a Princess 
whose mother made the fortune of a woman only 

because she was Milton's daughter^ at such a 

time are you, my friend^ so generous as to invite me 
to your land of liberty ! If this greatness of mind 
can be in any degree recompensed by knowing that 
I feel it in its foil extent, 'tis well ; then take this 
trifling recompense. But suffer me to say some- 
thing more aflevSlionate to you. I will come to see 
you weep over the bones of your sons. I will come 
to wipe away the tears which perhaps I have caused 
to flow afresh; but you must also wipe away mine, 
for I must tell you that the destiny of my love is not 
yet unravelled. Now hope appears to smile upon 
me, and now all is doubtful. I know not what you 
will think of the matter. Perhaps you would think 
differently, if I could relate all circumstantially. 
I will only say two things — that you must not find 
the least fault with my incomparable Fanny, nor too 
much with my timidity. I only tremble at the 
thought that she should in any degree mistake my 
character, and not give me credit for bting deter- 
mined never to make her unhappy, even in the most 
trifling appendages of happiness. What peace I 
have hitherto enjoyed has been chiefly the conse- 

t 15 ] 

quence of the following thought. When by a taste 
for virtuous deeds^ and by some trifling good a£tions9 
which to us arenot difficult, though to the vulgar they 
appear so, we have made a shew of intending to be 
virtuous ; then Providence seizes our whole heart ; 
and puts this great question to us, whether we will 
here too submit, whether we will be virtuous even 
here ?— -You see that this is a very comprehensive 
thought, but yet, when I measure my love against it, 
I wonder that it has power to support me. Indeed 
I must frankly acknowledge that it alone does not. 
Some little hopes at times appear so smiling, that I 

know not whether I can come to you, or when, 

Without my Fanny what would be to me your beau- 
tiful country, thecheerful society ofj/owr and(iflmay 
dare to say so) my friends, the liberty and leisure I 
used so much to enjoy? I cannot deny it, I aiti 
sometimes astonished at the degree of tenderness I 
feel for this angelic woman; but I will say no more, 
nor write again on the subjeft, till I can tell you 
something certain. I will send you at another 
time an Ode to God, which no one has yet seen. 

M. Le Maitre has written to me. The Profes- 
sorship is of so little value, and at the same time is 
accompanied with so many inconveniencies, that I 

[ 7« ] 

do not wish to obtain it. You have made this ex- 
cellent man also my friend. With what affeftioa 
dhall I embrace him when we meet! I request you 
to send me the French Review. Not on my own 
account, though I am much indebted to the author 
for his kindness. Fanny smiles when she finds me 
mentioned with approbation ; and sometimes it 
escapes her, that she is on such occasions comparing 
me with the Briton.* 

I may be very well contented with my domestic 
circumstances. My little Weiss is a genius ; but 
he will, or must, apply to trade. He loves me very 
much. Haller, as he knows that I am n(m in such a 
situation, has been endeavouring to discover pri- 
vately whether T would undertake to instru6lhis son 
in the liberal sciences, and a letter has been given me 
to read, which he wrote on the subjeA to a friend in 
this country. You know the embarrassments which 
make me now so irresolute. I will soon send some 
of the Messiah to be submitted to your criticism. 
When I can escape from my cares, I sometimes 
£aish a few lines. &c. 

* Milton. 

I 77 3 


Jpril 12, 1749. 
My dearest Bodmbb, 
IT is indeed requisite that I should take a journey 
to you, if I would express the whole force of that 
friendship which I feel towards you. How sin- 
gularly noble, and how numerous, are the exertions 
which you make on my account. But I will quit 
this extensive field, for I must write a volume full of 
tenderness, if I would describe all the feelings of my 
heart towards you. This shall be the subjeft of my 
song when I shall ke with you. — ** The little Klop- 
stock,'' as my Schmidt always calls me when his 
heart is full, will certainly visit you, and perhaps 
weep by your side tears of sweet pleasure. At pre- 
sent the all-powerful Fanny detains me, and I can be 
detained by her alone, — But you have betrayed my 
love to M. Le Maitre, and perhaps to Hagedom. 
Yqu may therefore depend upon it, that I will not 
say a word to you about Fanny till my next letter, 
and in the present I will call you to account about 

C 18 ] 

an affair which arises from your treachery. You 
have, as I have been informed, permitted to be print- 
ed in iheFreimuthigeNachrichten* an Ode in which 
my love appears very evident. What will become 
of me. What will Fanny say ? Geisecke has of- 
fended me much more, but perhaps you seduced 
him. He has allowed the Ode, ^^ When I am (lead 
&c." to be printed in the 3d vol. of the new col- 
leflion. Justify yourself on this important subjeS:« 
You must positively produce a satisfactory apology 
Haller has sent me a letter from a Englishman^ 
which informs him that the Messiah was presented 
to the Prince \ that he received it favourably^ parti- 
cularly in consideration of Haller, and that he would^ 
without doubt, enquire after the Author. I have 
upon mature deliberation resolved to write myself to 
Glover, who has great influence with the Prince. 
Had I not been in love, I might have suppressed this 
event. What is your opinion on the subject ? 

* A Periodical Paper printed at Berlin^ 

[ 79 ] 


nth May, n^g. 

FANNY has been to the Fair* with her Brother, 
and by this means I have discovered that you had 
sent a packet for me to Rabener. I must mention to 
you that there is no certsunty of finding Rabener, 
except at the Fsur : at any other time what you 
send to him for me might be delayed a great while. 
Tell the firiend for whose soul the Messiah is so 
exa&ly calculated, that he has an advantage over me, 
because I have been entirely precluded from the no- 
velty and the ardour attendant on the first reading. 
A youth who sees for the first time an amiable young 
woman, and at once feels that she was born for 
him, will feel more transport than the Mother who 
bore and educated her. — ^Tell him further that I 
particularly wish to know whether he is des^irou^ 
that Abbadona should be restored to happiness. 

You have afforded me much pleasure by the poem 
of Kleist. Fanny also has read it, and with so much 

* At Lcipsic. 

[ 80 ] 

interest that I could not avoid giving her the ma- 
nuscript. The passages respefting the Nightingale, 
and the divine Doris, affeSed my whole soul. Kleist 
must absolutely compleat this poem. &c. 


Tth June^ 1749. 

I Have now i^eivcd your criticism. Continue to 
advise nie, for I feel a peculiar satisfa£lion in being 
condufted by you into the track of new thoughts, I 
request from you and Mr. Breitinger some remarks 
on my three first cantos. I have determined that 
they shall be printed with two new cantos, to com- 
pose altogether the first volume. What do you now 
think in regard to your former proposal of a sub- 
scription, and how ought it to be arranged? Several 
booksellers solicit me for the publication of the work. 

I send you an Ode which no one has seen^ not 
even Fanny or her brother. I composed it before 
the commencement of this year. It has often been 
the companion of my solitary hours i and you will 

[ 81 ] 

discover from the subje6l why Fanny and Schmidt 
have not obtained a sight of it. Now, do you wish 
to know the fate of my love? I can tell nothing more 
than that it now appears probable that I am beloved. 
You will believe that this probability is of no little 
importance to me. llow happy should I be if I 
could speak with confidence ! Very much of what 
I consider as my happiness depends on this. How 


important many things now appear to me, which I 
before considered as trifling. I know that you will 
do all you can for me in this aflair; ajid how dear 
will you be to me for so doing. 

Belov'd by her, my heart will glow 
With warmer love for you. 

Perhaps my becoming known to the English may 
open for me a surer path. Hagedorn thinks th^t^ 
by the assistance of Van de Hoek in Gottingen^ I 
should send a copy to the translator of Haller in tbft 
Gentleman's Magazine. Will you be so kind as X9 
write to Haller on the subje£l^ but in such a manner 
as that I may not be suspeded pf suggesting it ? I 
know not whether I may not alter my determination 
to write to Glover. &c* 

£ 82 ] 


Nov. 28, 1749. 


I Should not so long have deferred writing to you^ 
if my friend Schmidt had not been with me, and if 
I had not again |i>een doubtful what answer I Qould 
give you respefting my journey. I have spent many- 
golden days with him. Now, however, I have the 
satisfaction to assure you, that in the spring \ .will 
tell you all. I rejoice in the sweet names of Bod* 
mer, Breitinger, and Hess, — in the prospeft of lei* 
sure and friendship ; and I listen, as Schmidt sa}^s^ 
to the whispers of these delightful thoughts, flat 
now learn the- conditions on which I shall conte to 
you. My presence must be almost unobserved in 
veur house. You must not make the smallest aK 
teration on my account. This being premised, and-^ 
d&cided as if you had given me the pledge of friend-' 
ship In the golden* age of the world, I wilt conier 
I CKW ' already well acquainted in idea with a ecrtain* 
country which I call Zurichia* Perhaps I may haVe- 
formed a mistaken notion of it ; but in the meaa 

{ 8J 3 

while I please myself with itnagining a country 
niore be*Jtifyit than ally other i ft the world. Ac- 
cording to my ideas there belong to a fine coufrtry — 
mountain*, vallies, Fakes, and what is far preferable^ 
the abode of friends. How distant/ and in what 
situations, dwell Breitinger^ Hirzel^ Waser^ Iscbar- 
n^ ? And I must ask another question, which i^ 
cpnnefted with the country with regard to me, 

.« Sioce now my life has reach'd the prime ef youtb,"- 

How near are you to any young ladies of youf 
acquaintance, into whose society you may think I 
could be admitted ? The heart of a young woman 
is an extpisive scene of nature, into whose labyrinth 
a poet must frequently penetrate, if he wishes to 
acquire profound knowledge. But these young 
ladies must not be made acquainted with my history^ 
lest they should put a restraint upon themselves 
without reason. ^ This without reason attaches no 
censure to these amiable unknown beings. Even if 
they were to resemble Fanny, they would find, not- 
withstanding, that I will love only once in my life.* 

♦ Nate hy the GermanEStor.*'-^ I will love onlyoncc.*'— 
*< The teader will be surprised at this salto mortdU^ when he 
compares it with Klopstock's hopes expressed in the ninth 

G 2 

[ «♦ J 

r have been sensibly aSefied by Henri's death > 
indeed death never before touched me so nearly* 
Perhaps I am too severe on this occasion. I can in 
some degree pardon him who at the hour of deatk 
pretends to jest^, because such an attempt indicates 

letter. We might easily fill up the blank with well-known 
tales of what occurred in the history of his love between 
Jime and November 1749; but we here publish only what is 
undoubtedly aulhentic, with an assurance that what we con- 
qeal would not bring the least disgrace on the heart or the 
character of our immortal Poet." ■■ 

The English Editor regrets that the German was not 
more communicative on tliis interesting subje<^ It appears^ 
however, that the reluctance which Klopstock felt to involve 
the woman he loved, and the sister of his dearest friend, in 
difficulties from which he was in vain endeavouring- to 

tricate himself, prevented any proposal of marriage* notwith* 
standing the encouragement given byShat generous fnendy 
on whose bounty the unfortunate lover was at that time 
dependant. The lady was soon afterwards married; and 
Mrs. Klopstock's letters to Mr. Richardson will perh^s bfe 
thought to furnish a sufficient apology for the poet* |f it 
should appear that after three years, in which ** he did what 
he could to die in a love cause,''* he was at last induced to 
-bteak tlie resolution contained in. hiabst letter to Bodmer.. 

* Shakespeare. 

X «« ] 

that bis mind is far from being in a tranqui) state ; 
but he who can jest so naturally as Henzi, ought to 
employ his superior powers of mind in something 
more noble. It must be^ because the events of 
futurity appeared to him uncertain, that he was re<» 
solved at all events to carry his mirth to the gates of 
Heaven. Peace to the soul of Henzi. I praise him 
for his composure ^ but I should praise him with 
more warmth and earnestness, if he had said, like 
Lord Kirmarnock^ '^ Ah^ Forster^ it is, however^ 
very terrible 1" i^— 

The Ode in the sixth volume of the miscellaneous 
colle£lion, ** As in solitary night,'* &fC. is by 
Schmidt. How do you like Cbevy-Chase, and the 
imitation of it, published in a former volume ?-— 
Your translation of the Ode, ^ When I am dead," 
has revived my former love for the Greek language; 
and in the height of my ardour I hav« translated the 
<sencIosed Strophes. Perhaps you may not find them 
much in the spirit of the original ; but perhaps 
AJcseus himself would not have written better, had 
be been in a similar situation. ■ — 

Since I cannot yet fix the time of my departure 
from this place, 1 will write to you again either from 
bence^ or from Leipsic. I ^hall be happy to have 

[ 86 ] 

H. Schultbess for my travelling companion. I have 
found in Hanover a noble friend^ who will endeavour 
to transmit the Messiah to the Prince to whom it is 
dedicated^ through a Mr. Von Schrader^ who knows 
his Royal Highnesses tempora Jandi. .lam as sin- 
cerely an enemy to dedications, as I am, with my 
whole heart, your friend, 


f 81 ] 

— *i 

The following letters were published in the Correspondence 
of Mr. Richardson; and the ingenious Editor of that 
work was not mistaken in supposing that they would in- 
terest every feeling heart She adds, *« It is presumed 
that readers of taste will not wish that Mrs. Klopstock't 
letters had been put into better English.'' 


Mas. Klopstock to Mr. Richardson. 

, r 

Hamburg, Nov. 29, 1751. 
Honoured Sir, 

"^X TILL you permit me to take this opportunity, 

in sending a letter to Dr. Young, to address 

myself to you ? It is very long ago that I wished to 

do it. Having finished your Clarissa, (O the heavenly 

book!) I would hav/prayed you to write the history 

of a manly Clarissa; but I had not courage enough 

at that time. I should have it no more to-day, as 

this is my first English letter, but I have it i It may 

be^ because I am now Klopstock's wife, (I belFeve 

L 88 X 

y6u know my husband by Mr. Hohorst,) and then 
I was only the single young girl. You have since 
written the manly Claris sa, without my prayer. O 
you have done it to the great joy and thanks of all 
your happy readers* Now you can write no more^ 
you must' write the history of an angel. 

iPoor Hohorst ! he is gone. Not killed in the 
battle^ (he was present at two,) but by the fever. 
The Hungarian Hussars have taken your works, with 
our letters, and all that he was worth, a little time ^ 
before his death. But the King of Prussia recom- 
pensed him with a company of cavalry. Poor 
friend ! he did not long enjoy it ! He has made me 
acquainted with all your lovely daughters. I kiss . 
them all, with my best sisterly kiss; but especially 
Mrs. Martha, of whom he says, she writes as her 
father. Tell her in my name, dear sir, if this be 
true, that it is an affair of conscience not to let pAnt 
her writings. Though I am otherwise of the sen* 
tiroent, that a woman, who writes not thus, or as 
Mrs. Rowe, should never let print her works. Will 
you pardon me this first Jong letter. Sir ? Will you 
tell me if I shall write a second ? 

I am, honoured Sir, your most humble servant^ 


[ 8t^ ] 


To Mr. Richardson. 

Hamburgh March 14, 1758.^ 
YOU are very kind, sir, to wish to know every, 
^hing of your Hamburg kindred. Then I will obey,, 
and speak of nothing but myself in this letter. I 
was not the lady who hath been with two gentlemen 
from Gottenburg in England. If I had,^ never would 
.1 have waited the cold ceremony of introducing you 
to me. In your house I had been, before you knew 
that I was in England. That I shall, if ever I am so 
happy as to come there. We had a pretty projeft 
to do it in the spring to come, but I fear that we> 
cannot execute it. The great fiend of friendship, 
war, will also hinder this, I think. I fear your Anti- 
gallicans exceedingly, more than the Gallicans them, 
selves; they, I must confess it, are at least more 
civil with neutral ships. I pray tp God to preserve 
you and Dr. Young till peace comes. We have a 
fihort letter of Dr. Young, in whioh he complains of 

[ 90 .] 

his health. How does he yet ? And you, who arc 
a youth to him, how do you do yourself? 

You will know all what concerns me. Love, 
dear sir, is all what me concerns, and love shall be 
all what I will tell you in this letter. In one happy 
night I read my husband's poem, the Messiah. I 
was extremely touched with it. The next day I 
asked one of his friends, who was the author of this 
poem? and this was the first time 1 heard Klopstock's 
name. I believe I fell immediately in love with him; 
at the least, my thoughts were ever with him filled, 
especially because his friend told me very much of 
bis charaflter% But 1 had no hopes ever to see him, 
when quite unexpeAedly I heard that he should pass 
through Hamburg. I wrote immediately to the 
same friend for procuring by his means that I might 
see the author of the Messiah, when in Hamburg. 
He told him, that a certain girl in Hamburg wished 
to see him, and, for all recommendation, shewed 
him gome IctterSk in which I made bold to criticize 
Klopstock's verses. Klopstock came, and came to 
me, I must confess, .that, though greatly prepos- 
sessed of his qualities, I never thought him the ami- 
able youth whom I found him. This made its effefl. 
After having seen him two hour*, I was obliged tp 


[ 91 3 

pass the ^veoing in a compaay which never had beqn 
so wearisome to me. I could nol speak; T co^l4 
not. play ; I thought I saw nothii^g but Klopstock. 
I saw him the next (jay^and the foiluwing, and we 
were very seriously friends ; but onihe fourth day 
be departed. It was a strong hour^ the hour of his 
departure. He wrote soon after^ and from that time 
our correspondence began to be a very diligent one* 
r sincerely believed my love to be friendship. I 
spoke with my friends ofnothing but Klopstock^ and 
shewed his letters. They raillied me, and said I was 
in love. I raillied them again, and said they must 
have a very fricndshipless heart, if they had no idea 
of friendship to a man as well as a woman. Thug 
it continued eight months, in which time my friends 
found as much love in Klopstock's letters as in me^ 
I perceived it likewi^e^ but I would not believe it. 
At the last Klopslock said plainly that he loved^ and 
I started as for a wrong thing. I answered that it 
was no love, but friendship^ as it was wliat I felt 
for him; we had not seen one another enough to 
love; as if love must have more time than friend-> 
shi{M This was sincerely my meaning, and I had 
this meaning till Klopstock came again to Hamburg. 
This he did a year after we had spen one another the 

[ 92 ] 


first time. We saw, wc were friends j we loved^ 
and we believed that wt loved ; and ia i$hort time 
after I could even tell Klopsfeock that I loved. But 
we were obliged to part again, and wait two years for 
our wedding. My mother would not let me marry 
a stranger. I could marry without her consentment, 
as by the death of my father my fortune depended 
not on her; but this was an horrible idea forme; 
and thank Heaven that I have prevailed by prayers ! 
At this time, knowing Klopstock, she loves him as 
her lifely son, and thanks God that she has not 
persisted. We married, and T am the happiest wife 
in the world. In some few months it will be four 
years that I am so happy; and still I dote upon Klop- 
stock as if he was my bridegroom. If you knew my 
husband, you would not wonder. If you knew his 
poem, I could describe him very briefly, in saying he 
is in all respefls what he is as a poet. This I can say 
with all wifely modesty; but I dare not to speak of 
my husband; I am all raptures when I do it. And 
as happy as I am in love, so happy am I in friendship 
in my mother, two elder sisters, and five other 
women. How rich I am ! Sir, you have willed that 
I should speak of myself, but I fear that I have ddne 
it too much. Yet you see how it interests me. I 

[ 93 3 

have the feest compliments for you of my dear hus- 
band. My compliments to all yours. Will they 
increase iny treasure of friendship ? I am. Sir, your 
humble servant, 



To Mr. Richardson. 

Hamburg i May 6, 1758. 
IT is not possible to tell you, Sir, what a joy your 
letters give me. My heart is very able to esteem the 
favour that you, my dear Mr. Richardson, in your 
venerable age, are so condescending good to answer 
so soon the letters of an unknown young woman, 
who has no other merit than a heart full of friend- 
ship, and of all those sentiments which a reasonable 
soul must feel for Richardson, though at so many 
miles distance. It is a great joyful thought, that 
friendship can extend herself so far, and that friend- 

[ 94 3 

ship has no need of seeing y though this seeing woiild • 
be celestial joy to hearts like ours, (shall I be so* 
proud to say ours ?) and what will it be when so 
many really good souls, knowing or not knowing in 
thus world, will see one another in the future, and be 
there friends ! 

It will be a delightful occupation for me to make 
you more acquainted with my husband's poem. 
Nobody can do it fetter than I, being the person who 
knows the most of that which is not published, being 
always present at the birth of the young verses, which 
begin by fragments here and there, of a subjeft of 
which his soul is just then filled. He has many 
great fragments of the whole work ready. You may 
think that persons who lore as we do, have no need 
of two chambers; we are always in the same : I \yith 
my little work, still, still, only regarding sometimes 
my husband's sweet face, which is so venerable at 
that time, with tears of devotion, and all the sub- 
limity of the subjeft. My husband reading me 
his young verses, and suffering my criticisms. 
Ten books are published, which I think probably 
the middle of the whole. I will as soon as I can 
translate you {he arguments of these ten books, and 
what besidet I think of them. The verses of the 

C 95 ] 

poeoi are without rhyrpes^ and are bexaoietcrs y 
which sort of verses my husband h^s been the firsts 
to introduce in our language^ we being still closely 
attached to rhymes and iambics. I suspeA the 
gentleman who has made you acquainted witly 
the Messiah is a certain Mr. Kaiser df G'Dttingen^' 
who has told me zt bis return from England, what 
he has-done^ and he has a sister like her whom you 
describe in your first letter. 

And our dear Dr. Young has been so ill ! But he 
is better. I thank God, along with you* O thai 
bis ddar instructive life may be extended, if it ts not 
against his own wbhesi I read lately in the news« 
paper that Dr. Young was made Bishop of Bristol. 
I must think it is another Young : how could the 

King make him onltf bishop, and Bisliopof Bristol^ 
while the place of Canterbury is vaean't ! I think the 
King knows not at all that there is a Young who 
illustrates his reign. And yon, my dear dear friend, 
have not hope of core of a sever^ nervous malady ! 
How J trembled when l read it ! I pray to God to 
give you, at the least, patience ai^d alleviation. I thank 
you.heartily for the cautbiis yo\| give me, and my 
dear Klopstock^ on this bccausion. Thougli I can read 
vtry well your hand^writing, you shall write no more 

C 9« ] 

if it Is incommodious to you. Be so good to dliHate 
only to Mrs, Patty; it will be very agreeable to have 
so amiable a correspondent ; and then I will^ still 
more than now, preserve ihe two of your own hand*- 
writing as treasures. I am very glad. Sir, you will 
t^kc my English as it is. I know very well that it 
may not always be English, but I thought for you it 
was intelligible. My husband asked, as I was 
writing my first letter, if I would not write French ? 
No, said I, I will not write in this pretty hdt/ade 
language to Mr. Richardson, though so polite, so 
cultivated, and no longer fade in the mouth of 
Bossuet. As far as I know, neither we, nor you, 
nor the Italians, have the word /ade. How have 
the French found this charadieristic word for their 
nation? Our German tongue, which only begins to. 
be cultivated, has much more conformity with the 
English than the French. 

I wish. Sir, I could fulfil your wish of bringing 
you acquainted with so many good people as you 
think of. Though I love my friends dearly, an4 
though they are good, I have however much to par- 
don, except in the single Klopstock alone. He is 
good, really good, good at the bottom, in all his 
a^lionSy in all the foldings of bis heart. I know 

[ 97 ] 

himj and sometimes I think if we knew others Iq 
the same manner, the better we should find them; 
for it may be that an a£lion displeases us, which 
would please us if we knew its true aim and full 
extent. No one of my friends is so happy as I am ; 
but no one had courage to marry as I did. They 
have married, as people marry ; and they are happy, 
as people are happy. Only one, as I may say, my 
dearest friend, is unhappy, though she had as good a 
purpose as myself. She has married in my absence; 
but had I been present, I might, it may he, have been 
mistaken in her husband as well as she. How long 
a letter this is again ! But I can write no short ones 
to you. Compliments from my husband, and com- 
pliments to all yours, always, even though I should 
tiot say it. 



[ 98 J 


To Mr, Richardson. 

Hamburg^ Aug. 26, 1758. 
WHY think you, Sjr, that I answer so late ? I 
will tell you my reasons. But before all, how doe* 
Miss Patty, and how do yourself? Have not you 
guessed that I, summing up all my happinesses, and 
not speaking of children, had none ? Yes, Sir, this 
has been my only wish ungratified for these four 
years. I have been more than once unhappy with 
disappointments 5 but yet, thanks, thanks to GoD^ 
I am in full hope to be mother in the month of 
November. The little preparations for my child and 
child-bed (and they are so dear to me !) have taken 
so much time, that I could notanswer your letter, nor 
give you the promised scenes of the Messiah. Thi^ 
is likewise the reason wherefore I am still here, fof 
properly we dwell at Copenhagen, Our staying here 

C 99 ] 

is only a visit, but a long one, which we pay my 
family. I not being able to travel yet, my husband 
has been obliged to make a little voyage to Copen- 
hagen. He is yet absent;— a cloud over my hap- 
piness ! He will soon return | but what does that 
help ? He is yet equally absent. We write to each 
other every post, but what are letters to presence ? 
But I will speak no more of this little cloud j I will 
only tell my happiness. But I cannot tell you how 
I rejoice ! A son of my dear Klopstock's ! O when 
shall I have him ? It is long since I have made the 
remark that geniuses do hot engender geniuses ; no 
children at all, bad sons, or, at the most, lovely 
daughters, like you and Milton. But a daughter or 
a son, only with a good heart, without genius, I will 
nevertheless love dearly, 

I think that about this time a nephew of mine 
will wait on you. His name is Witelhem, a young 
rich merchant, who has no bad qualities, and several 
good, which he has still to cultivate. His mother 
was I think twenty years older than I, but we 
Other children loved her dearly like a mother. She 
had an excellent charafter, but is long dead. This 
is no letter, but only a newspaper of your Ham- 
burg daughter. When I have my husbapd and 

« 2 

[ 100 ] 

nJy child, I will write you more^ if God gives me 
health and life. You will think that I shall be not 
a mother only, but a nurse also ; though the latter 
(thank God that the former is not so too !) is quite 
against fashion and good-breeding, and though 
nobody can think it possible to be always with 
the child at home. 


Note. — Mrs. Klopstock died on the 28th of Novembe'^ 




Published at Hamburg in the year 1759. 

Introduction^ by F. G. Klopsiock. 

TTXEATH has deprived me of her whose afie£lioa 
made me as happy as she wa3 made by mine. 
Our friends well know with what tenderness we. 
loved. — ^The following pages will shew why I anx 
compelled^ and willingly submit^ to refrain from all 
complaint. This is one reason why I shall not write 
a poem, which many have expeAed from me^ even 
when I may be more capable of it than I am at pre- 
sent. I think that^ before the public, a man should 
speak of his wife with the same modesty as of him- 
self ; and how prejudicial would the observance of 

[ 102 J 

this principle be to the enthusiasm required in poetry* 
The reader, moreover, and not without reason^ 
thinks himself justified in refusing implicit credit to 
the panegyrist of his beloved, and my love for her 
who made me the happiest of men, is too sincere to 
let me allow my readers to call it in question. Ano- 
ther circumstance which makes poems of this kind 
uninteresting is that we have too many of them* 
As these considerations would have restrained my 
pen, even if my departed friend had left nothing that 
could be communicated to the world, it will easily be 
imagined what pleasure it must be to me to have the 
power of publishing somelittle Manuscripts by which 
she ercAs a monument to herself. I am so proud 
of her doing this with her own hand, that I will not 
add to the colleftion the Odes I formerly wrote to 
her. Should this pride require forgiveness, I hope 
to obtain it, when it is recolleded that I am not proud 
©f myself, but only of my friends. 

I have nothing more to say of these little pidce» 
than that they were not written with the intention 
of erefting a monument to herself. Some subje^Sks 
are particularly interesting to us; we write out 
thoughts on them, and perhaps shew them to a few 
friends, without ever thinking of publicationt It is 

C 103 ] 

above two years since, she thus began to write 
down some of her favourite ideas d^ri^g ipy absence^, 
and she was confused and distressed when I sur-> 
prised het at thiiiJ employment, and prevailed with 
her to read to me wh|it she had written,— O she 
was all the happiness of my life ! What have I not 
lost in losing her ! But I will not complain. 

I shall perhaps at some future titne print some of 
her letters, or at least some fragments of them. I 
can publish only a few of them, having some hours 
after her death burnt most of those which we wrote 
to each other before our marriage. I was led to do 
this by the idea that I might be tempted to read 
them, and that they would agitate me too much. I 
have since found some which had be^n kept in a dif- 
ferent place, and I will beg my friends who have 
letters from her to send them to me. My intention 
is, as I have already said, to publish them. Some 
friends of virtue may perhaps be anxious to know 
more of this heavenly mind. 

[ 104 ] 

Extracts from the Correspondence between Klopm 
stock and Margaret M'Sller, when their marriage 
^as delay edy and he left her to return to Copen^ 
hageuy in Oct* 1752, Seepage 22. 


I Must write to you t his evening, and you shall 
find my letter at Copenhagen. Best of men, you 
ought to find in me a wife desirous to imitate you 
as far as it can be possible. I will-i-indeed I will, 
resemble you as much as I can. My soul leans 
upon yours. — ^Tliis is the evening on which we read 
your Ode to God. Do you remember it ! If I can 
preserve as much fortitude as I have acquired this 
evening, I will not shed a tear at our parting. You 
will leave me, but I shall again receive you, and re- 
ceive you as your wife. Alas! after another day you 
will be gone far — far from me, and it will be long 
before I see you again; but I must restrain my grief, 

* This letter was written before Klopstock left Hamburg, 
and received by bim at Copenhagen. 

[ 105 ] 

God will be with you, your God and mine, Whcti 
you are gone I shall be more firm than I am now, as 
I have already assured you. I trust in our gracious 
GoD^ that He will restore you to me, that He will 
make me happy. He knows that through you I shall 
be continually improving, He has already bestowed 
on us so much happiness, that I trust He will com- 
plete our felicity. ?egin then your journey, only 
let me weep, — indeed I cannot help it. May God be 
with you ! O my God, it is Klppstock for whom I 
pray. Be thou with him; shew thy mercy to me 
in granting this request. If my gratitude can be 
acceptable to Thee, Thou knowest how grateful I am. 
O thou All-Merciful, how much felicity hast ThoU 
already vouchsafed to me; felicity for which I could 
not have presumed to ask. O still be gracious to me, 
to my Klopstock. I recommend him to Thee ! 


I Have you no longer, my Klopstock; you are 
already far from me. May you but be safe ! What 
are you doing now ? I wish I could answer that 
question. But I know, at least I hope so. You 

t 106 ] 

are well, you are tranquil, you are thinking of your 
Meta, of your ever beloved Meta. You are thinking 
of me, as I am Qver thinking of you; for your heart 
and your afle£iion are like my own. I could not 
have imagined that absence would be so very heavy. 
What is life without you? but what is life with you? 
Now all reminds me of the time which is mine no' 
more \ of my happiness in having always near me 
my best beloved friend, who loves me so tenderly. 
Alas ! I shall not see you again for a long long time; 
but if I knew that you were safely arrived at Copen- 
hagen, I think I should be easy. Yes, my Klop* 
stock, be assured that I am as tranquil as I can 
possibly be in your absence. I am for ever yours ; 
you love, me, and I spare myself for your sake. I 
wish you could see how I restrain my tears. Our 
friends are very kind, and watch me tenderly. They 
endeavour to render every thing as pleasant to me as 
they can; but what is all this without you ? I am 
expefiling Schmidt, who yesterday brought me your 
last farewell, and told ine how much you had wished 
to return from the Post- House. My best friend^ 
farewell ! My constant prayers attend you. 

r 107 3 


Klopstock to Meta. 

YESTERDAY the same accident which happened 
lately to your letter occurred again. I am not^ how- 
ever, uneasy, for I am sure that you have written to 
me. With what transport do I think of you, my 
Meta, my only treasure, my wife ! When in fancy 
I behold you, xny mind is filled with the heavenly 
thoughts which so often fervently and delightfully 
occupy'itj and while I think of you, they arastill more 
fervent, more delightful. They glow in my breast^ 
but no words can express thrm. You are dearer to 
me, than all who are conne&ed with me by blood or 
by friendship, dearer than all which is dear to me 
besides in the creation. My sister^ my friend, you 
are mine by love, by pure and holy love, which Pro- 
vidence, (O how grateful am I for the blessing !) has 
made the inhabitant of my soul upon earth* It 
appears to. me that you were born my twin sister in 
Paradise^ At present indeed we are not there^ but 

[ 108 ] 

we shall return thither. Since we have so much 
happiness here, what shall we have there ? 

Remember me to all our friends. My Meta^ my 
for ever beloved, I am entirely yours. 


Meta to Klopstock. 

I Could not write to you till this moment, my 
beloved Klopstock ; I am in such good health, that I 
have been out every day, and am now returned from 
Schmidt's house to this. With the most perfe£t 
sincerity I assure you that I have not been so well 
since 1749, as during the last week. Imagine how 
much I must fe$l in the hope that I am thus restored 
for you. I did not expeft to be ever again as well 
as I am now. Praised be our God for it ! and you 
will praise HFm with me. Yesterday evening, when 
I had retired from company, and enjoyed a very 
delightful hour, I said to myself, perhaps my Klop- 
atock is now worshipping God with me, and at that 

[ 109 ] 

thought my devotions became more fervent. How 
delightful it is to address ourselves to God, to feel 
his influence on our minds ! Thus how happy may 
we be even in this world; but you say right, if our 
happiness is so great here, what will it be hereafter, 
and then we shall never be separated. 

Farewell, my beloved ! I shall think of you con- 
tinually to-morrow. The holiest thoughts harmonize 
with my idea of you; of you who are more holy than 
I am, who love our great Creator not less than I do. 
More I think you cannot love Him ; not more, but 
in a more exalted manner. How happy am I to 
belong to you. Through you I shall be continually 
improving in piety and virtue. I cannot express the 
feelings of my heart on this subject, but they are 
very different from what they were half a year ago. 
Before I' was beloved by you, I dreaded my greatest 
happiness, I was uneasy lest it should withdraw me 
from God. How much was I mistaken ! It is true 
that adversity leads us to God; but such felicity as 
mine cannot withdraw me from Him, or I could not 
be worthyto enjoy it. On the contrary, it brings me 
nearer to Him. The sensibility, the gratitude, the 
joy, all the feelings attendant on happiness, make 
my devotion the more fervent. 

[ 110 1 


Klopstock to Meta. 

IT is'now Sunday evening, my dearest, and I have 
staid at home, not only because I like to do so on a 
Sunday, and because T wished to proceed with the 
Messiah, but also because I love to be alone with 
you, and therefore the society which formerly I 
thought not uninteresting is now indifferent to me. 
But though I have been with you all this evening, 
my best beloved, yet now first the thought of writing 
to you occurred to me. With what sweet peace of 
mind do I contemplate in every point of view the 
thought that you are mine, that I am youra. O 
Meta, how entirely are you formed to make me 
happy; and you are bestowed upon me. Can there 
1>e so much happiness here below ? Yet what is the 
greatest earthly happiness to that which we hope to 
enjoy in a future state ? Yes, my beloved, for ever.* 

* These extracts make no part of Mr. Klqpstock's pub- 
Kcation; but as they are mentioned by him page 103, they 
are inserted in this colledUon. They are taken from the 
manuscript letters sent to the editor by Dr.Mumssen: seehi^ 
8th Letter. 


[ 111 ] 

Letters from the Dead to the Living. 

By Margaretta Klopstock. 


O My friend, my brother, how happy am I ! 
What it is to be blessed ! But how can I de- 
scribe it to you ? Your language has no words, 
your soul no ideas, of this perfect happiness, of this 
never- ending bliss. My brother, you will one day 
share it with me. Then will you know what it is 
to be blessed. Amidst the many joys of Heaven, 
what joy is this, that my brother, nly Semida, shall 

• It appears from Klopstock's Ode to Bodmer, that he 
was extremely partial to the writings of the celebrated Mrs." 
Rowe, which probably suggested to Mrs. Klopstock the idea 
pf the following letters ; but it will, I believe, be allowed that 
f^e greatly excels theiopdel from which they are copied. 


one day be happy with me ? We shall then love 
each other with even more purity, more warmth 
than we have loved on earth. It is here alone that 
friendship is perfeft. Yet I feel that a brother, 
whom I have so long known, with whom I have 
been so long united, I should love differently from 
all the inhabitants of Heaven. With tenderness 
I should love him. — Abdiel I love with reverencQ. 
This exalted friend was my protefting Angel. — O 
how the Angels love mankind ! 

When my soul had scarcely left her earthly 
dwelling, ye were all weeping over it; — but my bro- 
ther was resigned. As I soared aloft, unknowing 
how to tread the new paths of air, there appeared— 
think of this, my Semida— there appeared to me your 
form. With open arms, with the transport of an 
unem bodied soul, I hastened towards it ; for I 
thought you also were dead, and that we should be 
blessed together. ^^ I am not thy brother," said 
the spirit in a gentle voice, '^^ I am Abdiel, thy 
guardian Angel. I put on the form of thy Semida, 
that thy yet scarce opened eyes might not be daz- 
2led by the splendour of an Angel. Come, I will 
be thy guide through these new paths. I was thy 
guide on earth, I loved thee more than thou didst 

C 115 ] 

love Semida; and so shall I now for ever love thee, 
Iwill be thy Semida till he come to lis, and then 
\(rill we three be friends for ever. How much af- 
feftion wilt thou first learn in Heaveu> thou who 
hast already felt so much oii earth ! But come, I 

will lead thee to the abode of the blessed/* O 

Semida, now your language fails. Of the glory of 
the Uncreated I can tell you nothing. Fear Him, 
love Him : go oii living as you have lived, and 
advance continually towards perfection. Then will 
you taste, then will you £bel, what even the blest 
Cannot express, what God has prepared for those 
who love Him ! 


Mr DEAREST Mother, 
I Am allowed to write to* you. O that I coujd 
tell you how happy your Sunim is I I spoke the 
language of the earth but imperfeflly, and now I 
speak a far different one 3 how then can I express 
myself? Beloved mother, I see you still before me 


[ 11* ] 

as I lay in your bosom when I died. I knew not 
what it was to die; I only felt such pain as I had 
never felt before, and I saw you weep. O how I 
ftlt that you should weep ! I would have said,— • 
my mother ! — but I could not speak. I hung my 
little arms trembling around yours. You will re- 
member it; for then you wept more abundantly. 
Now it grew dark around me, and I could not see 
you, I knew not how it was, but I heard your 
voice. I heard you pray to my Redeemer for me. 
I prayed with you; for often had I prayed with you 
before. And now I felt a sudden pressure on my 
heart, and now I could see again; — but how different 
I felt from what I was before ! I ran to you, and 
embraced your knees, but you did not perceive it, 
I said, ^^ My dearest mother!** — but you did not 
hear me. I was so light, I flew when I would havCv 
walked. At length I saw my own little body. I 
saw you lay it on the bed, kneel by it, and lift your 
hands and eyes to Heaven, with a look, like my 
new friends the Angels. Then you wept no more^ 
but became quite composed and resigned. I heard 
you say, — *^ The Lokd gave, and the Lord hath 
taken away; blessed be the name of tl^e LordI*' 
— I heard too what you said to my father; for I still* 

[ 115 ] 

followed you. ^^ Sunitn is dead/' you said to hini, 
^^ Sunim is with Godj" — and my father began to 
weep aloud^ and said^ the only hdr of his name 
and fortune now -was dead^ and all was lost to him. 
How gently did you lead him back: how sweetly 
speak of God, and of eternity ! 

I had now heard that I was dead, but knew not 
what it meant; until a heavenly form came to me^ 
and gently led me away; for I thought of nothing 
but remaining with you* This heavenly form was 
my Salem, whom I love as I love you, and who led 
me to the world I now inhabit. It is a star where 
all the souls of children come when they are dead ; 
and where the heavenly Salem prepares us for su- 
preme bliss. O that you could see this world, and 
know how it contributes to our present happiness I 
Here too we have sensible objects, which instruct 
and prepare us for something higher; but Salem 
does this still mor^. With what rapture do I listen^ 
when he tells us of the Great Creator, of the Heaven 
of the blessed, of the Hosts of Angels, and of th« 
Vision ©f God, which we shall attain when our 
knowledge shall be ripe enough. I know not whe- 
ther this will be on that great day when the earth 
shall be judged, or sooner. Salem has not revealed 

I 2 

[ 116 ] 

this to me ; and I am already sufficiently happy in 
knowing that I shall^ at some future time, assuredly 
go there. O, how happy am I, even here ! 

But, my dfear mother, — for I must come to it at 
last, — how I grieve for thee, thou best of mothers ! 
Yet Salem says, it is better you should know before 
hand, for then you can prepare for it. Ah, my 
mother, the son whom God has given you in my 
place, who is so like me, who is called Sunim too,— 
he shall also die. My mother, now, for the first 
time in this world, I weep. Will you have strength 
to bear this second trial ? O pray to God for strength? 
I will pray with you. Your former vidory pleased 
the Almighty. Salem told me so. Offend not 
by impatience Him whom you have once already 
pleased by resignation. It is hard, very hard, my 
mother. I feel it with you; but Salem says, God 
loves you, and therefore does He send these trials, 

then, ocTend not God, who so loves us allj who 
makes your first Sunim so happy ; who will make 
the second happy also! No, you will not murmur, 

1 know it. You will patiently endure what God 
has appointed for you ; and then will you also be 
blest. What bliss wilt thou at once attain, thou 
who hast advanced so far on earth I 

C in ] 


Mr Dauohter^ 
IT is long since I died. It was only a few hours 
after your birth. You know me not^ but I love 
you. How can I help loving my own daughter^ 
and^the daughter too of the best of husbands 4 You 
have heard from my sister^ how your father and I 
loved each othf r. Ours was not a love that first 
arose in marriage^ the work oP chance; it was 
founded on , virtue^ and on the sympathy of our 
hearts. We had chosen each other.-^And will the 
daughter of such a marriage venture to take a hus« 
band whom she scarcely knows^ merely because he 
is of her owa rank, and can make her still richer ? 
How can you think so lightly of marriage? Mar- 
riage, fixes your fate, my daughter. The whole of 
your former life is but a preparation to this longer, 
to this more important life. All your temporal 
happiness depends on your choice of a husband; and 
how nearly is the eternal comieded with it I What 

[ "8 ] 

do you know of the man to whom you are on the 
point of giving your hand ? Have you once consi- 
dered, Melissa, whether he is the man on whose 
support you could lean, through all the crooked 
ways of life ? Will he lead you at last to the throng 
of the Almighty, and say, ^^ here is the wife 
whom Thou hast given me ? ** O Melissa, can a 
man do this, who never thinks of eternity? A 
man who wastes the latter half of the day amongst 
trifling pastimes, and to whom the former half is so 
wearisome a load. Fool that he is ! even his body, 
emaciated by excess, does not remind him that his 
time will be very short. And shall my Melissa be 
the portion of such a man ? — Do you expe3 to re- 
form him ? Ah, Melissa, such is the foolish confi- 
dence so many of you place in your own powers, 
A man so fastidious in every thing, how soon will 
he be tired of a wife ! A man who knows not seri- 
ous refleftion, how will he endure it from a woman? 
Will he even have time to listen to you ? A man 
who flies from solitude, to whom a conversation with 
a rational friend is insupportable, who must be in 
company, will he talk with his wife of things which 
concern the soul ? Melissa/ you deceive yourself. 
Your tender heart will not avail youj he under- 

C 119 ] 

Stands nothing of the heart; and when tenderness 
avails not awoman^ what can help her? Religion ? 
Do you believe that a man of such morals has any 
religion ? No — he has none. He will even try to 
rob you of yours; and should you retain it, he will 
make your children laugh at you for it. — ^You trem- 
ble, my daughter. Yes — you have reason. Think 
to what misery a thoughtless step exposes you. . It 
sacrifices your temporal, and risques your eternal 

What happiness can yoii enjoy with a man who 
never thinks? who supposes he makes you happy 
by dragging you into company; with whom you 
cannot speak of God, of eternity, of the peace, 
the security, the happiness of friendsnip, and of its 
higher degree, connubial tenderness ; of the educa- 
tion of your innocent children, and of a thousand 
such interesting subje6ls ? How wretched will you 
be with a man whom you cannot love ! Such a 
man Melissa never can love; and bow hard will 
you find it to obey, when you do not love. Will 
you not often wish to be rid of your duty? And 
how easily may this wish lead you to throw it off. 
How will you be able to educate your children ? 
Should nature be strong enough to make you love 

[ 120 ] 

the children even of such a man, should you wish 
to educate them well, will you have the'power ! O 
how much of the good you do, will he destroy ! — 
And aboTe all, what will become of your soul with 
such a husband ? Have you never considered in 
wh^t danger it is ? A man who has no rl^ligion, (a 
man of such morals can have none,) will he sutler 
his wife to have any ? If you have no affeflion for 
him, you will most easily retain itj but even then 
you will grow careless in it, because your husband 
does not encourage, strengthen, lead you continually 
on, and like a guardian ange] watch over your tender 
soul. But if, from pity, from duty, or from preju-? 
diced partiality, you still love him, — then fear the 
most for your soul ! The man who knows that he 
11 beloved, finds it easy to shake the principles of a 
weak woman. Therefore tremble, ye Melissas, when 
ye make your choice, tremble for your eternal hap. 
piness ! Choose none but a Christain. Choose 
not a free thinker, who laughs at you and your reli- 
gion. Choose not one who would degrade you 
to the darkness of natural religion. Choose not 
one,— O shudder at the thought ! — who would rob 
you of your Redeemer, your only salvation; and 
would debase his* most exalted divinity to nothing 

[ 121 ] 

more than a great and good man. Neither choose 
a sceptic. He may be a virtuous man^ God may 
have patience with him; but to you is not allotted 
the portion of wisdom to convince him, and you 
put yourself in danger of doubting with him.— 
Choose a Christian, who in his strong hand will lead 
you through the slippery world; and at last, to the 
throne of the Redeemer. Then, together will ye 
come, my Melissa, and taste and feel what I now 
feel with my husband, my Christian husband ; — 
£^nd yet greater will be our happiness, when she 
V^hom our soul loves enjoys it with us ! 


1 Loved you much, my sister, while yet I lived 
on the same earth with you, and I love you still. 
Can I better prove it, than by employing this un- 
common method of being useful to you? I should ,. 
have said to you, on earth, all that I am now going 
to say, had I lived longer ; for it requires not hea^ 
vpnly wisdom; but while I lived, you were so youngs 
that I could do no more than just begin to form 

C 122 ] 

your heart. I rejoice, that from this early seed has 
sprung already so much good. You tread a better 
path than many of your sisters. You do not cleave 
to the superficial, the light, the frivolous, the vain, 
the nothing of the earth; but still, Melinda, you 
cleave to the earth. I rejoice to see you prefer 
stillness to noise; the society of your husband and 
children to those assemblies which are also called 
society. I rejoice that you prefer the fulfilment of 
your duties towards your husband and children, and 
the little affairs which are entrusted to the narrow 
sphere of your sex, to such empty pleasures; but 
yet Melinda, you cleave to the earth, and only to 
the earth. It is proper, it is right, to perform the 
duties which you perform ; but it is not enough to 
perform them only. We are not made for the little 
duties of mortality alone, but for the higher duties 
of eternity. Let it be your first endeavour to know 
your Creator and Redeemer. You believe in him j 
but how do you believe ? Have you examined the 
grounds of that belief, and how have you been con- 
vinced ? Do you try to be present in thought with 
Go», as He is present with you? Do you with your 
whole heart, with all your feelings, love Him who 
hath so loved you ? Are you sufficiently attentive. 

[ 123 ] 

earnest, slrift, that your heart be pure before Him 
who sees into the inmost soul ; who sees each deed, 
even to its motive ? To comprehend all the duties 
of society in one, dost thoii to others as thou wouldst 
they should do to thee? O Melinda, see what is 
wanting in you ? You perform the little^ but you 
delay the great, the important duties. Employ your 
leisure, (for of the lime which God has lent you 
•an account must be given,) employ it in thinking of 
God. Think of his love, think of jt continually, 
and learn \ofeel it. This is our first duty, and how 
easy a duty it is ! From this flow all the others,— 
Thou canst not find it difficult to love' that God, 
who, for so happy a world, and for a still happier 
eternity, hath created, redeemed, and sandified thee; 
who hath reserved for thee such bliss ! O Mclinda, 
were not even angels mute when they would speak 
of this, what transports would thy sister now pro- 
claim to thee ! But it has not entered into the heart 
of man, it cannot enter into the heart of man, what 
God has prepared for us ; what I already feel, 
and thou shalt feel. O my sister, thou who dost 
no evil, but not enough of good, (and that the Holy 
One will punish,) allow thyself to be awakened to 
eternal happiness ! 

t IM ] 


LTTTLE dost thou eApefl:, O^Lorenzo, now after 
a year, to hear of thy friend; ah, rather say, of thy 
companion in dissipation, for a connection like ours 
deserves not the name of friendship; little dost 
thou now expeft to receive any account of me. 
Thou art right. Who sends accounts from this 
dreadful prison ? In common with the terrific spi- 
rit$ our seducers, we hate the whole human race i 
and we hate Him too, — Him whom I am forced to 
confess, whom on earth I endeavoured to deny,— 
whom yet I would deny, but cannot,— ——O ye, 
yet mortals ! ye who yet can comfort yourselves 
with his love, ye cannot conceive what it is to know 
God only in his omnipotence! God without love ! 
Lorenzo, I feel a mixture of cruelty and compassion.^ 
One thought says, I will save him from misery by 
rfiy example; and another says, I will rejoice in hi§^ 
torture ! Where wast thou on the day of terror ? 
Where wast thou, that thou wast not buried wi^t; 

[ 12i ] 

me In the ruins of Lisbon ? For hadst thou dled^ 

thou hadst been here. Hear then my story, 

for thou knowest it not. Ye found not my body; 
it was burnt. "Hear me !— - 

From the excesses of the night I yet lay in a deep 
sleep. The morning dawn had beheld my crimes, 
I waked in terror at the shaking of the"] earth. At 
the same moment the house fell in. ^' ^Tis He^ 
''tis He"^ I cried, '^ He kills me !*' For who can 
totally deny Him, the Fearful One ? We feel, when 
we sin, that we cannot ; but we stupify ourselves. 
I had almost prayed, but I could not. I knew not 
how to pray ; and the anxiety to save my life ab- 
sorbed the thought of God. At length I worked 
my way from out of the ruins of my dwelling. I 
hastened on, without any accident. Thw made me 
feel secure. I met with her, — perhaps she is now 
a saint, — her whom I so thoughtlessly seduced to 
stain her sex with the same crimes that we stain 
ours with. ^^ Ah, seducer,'' said she, ^^ profligate ! 
repent, repent, or we are this moment lost !'* It 
seemed to me ridiculous to hear her preach repent- 
ance; I told her 30, and asked how she could suffer 
herself to be alarmed by such an accident. O Lo- 
renzo, the words stuck in my throat! A house fell 

[ 126 3 

down, and crushed both her and me. She was soon 
dead. I only saw her raise her eyes to Heaven, and 
I have not found her here. I was much mangled ; 
I could not die. I beheld once more the setting 
sun. I rolled myself over in blood and dust, and 
saw beside me ihe old man who was the constant 
objeft of our ridicule. How peacefully he died ! 
I would have given my whole life to have died like 
him. "Redeemer! Saviour!" in a soft voice I 
heard him say. How could I now believe a Saviour? 
I never had believed him.- ■ 

I died ; — that is, I changed my agony, that 
dreadful agony, for one more dreadful. I plunged 
into the abyss of perdition. And now, Lorenzo, 
wilt thou come to me ? Wilt thou repent ? Can 
Lorenzo repent ? Thou canst, since she could. But 
accursed be thou ; accursed be she ; if yet I have 
power lo curse, — accursed be ye all, for having so 
great a share in my ruin ! Ye must all come to me, 
all suffer what I suffer. I cannot bear ye should 
be less miserable than I am ! O He ! He who sits 
in judgment ! There is a God, Lorenzo ! There 
is a conscience ! There is unutterable woe ! 

I 127 ] 


ARISTUS, I fell in the unfortunate duel. By 
thy hand I died ! And I had been condemned, 
were not the mercy of the Eternal without mea- 
sure ; mercy to you incomprehensible, if ye knew 
what ye are. O Aristus, thou knowest not thyself, 
thou knowest not thy God ! Thou hast scarcely 
thought of his omnipotence; still less of his mercy* 
Thou dost still remain in the darkness, the thought- 
lessness in which thou wast brought up. Thy 
father thought nothing needful for thee but cou- 
rage ; thy profession required not virtue and reli- 
gion 5 and thou didst not require them from thy 
immortal soul. O how melancholy a thought it is, 
that the profession which makes us more conversant 
with death than age and sickness do, that it should 
know the least of God ! Thou art not an infidelf 
and thou art not a Christian. O miserable friend 1 
—for thou wert my friend, according to our faint 
ideas of friendship, — look into thyself, and tremble ! 
There is a God 5 thou art immortal. Thou wast 

[ 128 ] 

cast off by God, for thou hadst sinned, God be- 
came man in order to redeem thee^ and thou mayest 
now be for ever happy ! This thou knowest. Thou 
canst at least remember that it was taught thee in 
thy childhood; but thou hast never thought on this. 
If thou hadst died in my place, and God had not 
had mercy on thee, how wouldst thou have felt, 
amidst inconceivable torment, that thy thoughtless- 
ness alone was the cause, that instead of those dread- 
ful tortures, thou didst not enjoy eternal happiness, 
happiness which I should in vain attempt to de- 
scribe ! Now — now it is yet time, Aristus! Per- 
haps to-morrow's fight may send thee, with ten 
thousand other thoughtless wretches, to perdition! O 
turn thee; thou already knowest enough to turn, and 
much thou needest not know. Feel only that thou 
art a sinner, and that he, Jesus of Nazareth,— a 
name so many of thy brethren in vain endeavour to 
debase;— He, the God whom I now worship, is 
thine Atoner, thy Redeemer ! How calmly mayest^ 
thou march to battle, if thou but feel this rightly | 
How glorious, (even amongst Angels this is glory,) 
how glorious to die, when thou diest to defend thy 
country, to sav^ thy fellow-eitizens 1 How far be- 
low this, how mean was the death I died ! Even 

tM>w I should/eel aihamed at the disgrace of a duel^ 
if. God had not forgiven my sin. O Aristus, for a-^ 
single word I died in blood ; and my friend w^ 
my barbarous murderer! As thoughlle^^ly as we. 
had lived, so went we forth to death. The laws of 
our station enjoined it. Laws never given, even by* 
man, imaginary laws, ye we obeyed j and thQse 
for eyer engraven on our hearts, thosie so plainly re^ 
veated,-*-tbe acknowledged laws of Goi>, the Cre^ 
ator, the Lord of man,— -those w^despised, agains^ 
|ho9e we rebelled; and (O amazing folly!) wi^iout 
knowing, without wishing to know them^ That 
work of fancy. Honour, alone is revered by most 
men in our station; that alori^ they make their 
idol. The true honour of obeying God, and being 
immortal, they know not. Alas, they neverconcerii 
themselves to know it. We went, and did our 
dreadful work* We had spoken a few unthinking 
words, (Oh, if Go0 punished as we punish, we hail 
been long^ince condemned,) we had said a few un- 
thinking words, and this must be avenged with blood, 
with death 1 While yet we knew nothing higher than 
tUs life, we loved each other, and we must kill 
each other! We felt obscure forebodings of what 
death might be to us, but this life must be served. 


[ 130 3 

Now we already stood in blood j each sought the 
other's life; be hiust (lo so to save his own. Un* 
happy thought for souls that depend on this life 
only; and far more unhappy, if they know the 
dreadful consequences of su<ih thoughtlessness. — I 
fell. Thou didst fee) some etnotion at the fate of 
thy fiiend; but like all thy emotions, it was transi- 
tory. Thy soul does ever tear itself from serious 
thought. Observing that I was not dead, com« 
passion bid thee bring me to the nearest house^ and 
commend me to the care of a surgeon, and then 
thou didst fly for safety. Chance, as you call it,-*-* 
we call it here the eternal providence of GoD^^*— 
had led me to a Christian woman's house. She 
was so happy as to serve her God in peace and 
tranquillity, within the limits of her sex, and now 
her old age was crowned by the saving of a sou). 
O how I shall thank her, when she comes to us ! 
She sat down by me, and began to talk of eternity; 
abound that waked my soul from the sleq> in which 
she had hitherto been sunk;— dreadful waking, which 
awaked her to despair ! Now I felt the full weight 
of my want of thought, the extent of its guilt, and 
of its punishment. I felt myself condemned*. I 
had lost the power of speech, but stilt my. grief 

C m I 

cQukI ifage. She s^w U^i Wit she ventured not. to 
copibs^tj my desjjair. Shg.s^nt tiptl^^orthj;, pa^pi^ 
of tibe villagi^^ a op^ dc^p^ec^ by ^cbtu^. H^came 
•r-and O^ m^y Gqo re>y^rd him l-r^^^ led me up. to 
my Re^^jo^r. J^ng }niiee4 t^a^ ] ^till tp combat 

with4?sp2^|^i :^?-h^^^^ '^^^.fHft'f?, nay sJLn s^ppew 
light, buthcjisbftVf^d. me ^h^c iflfap3> of obtaii^ng 

pardq9. I^ i^i^ed it^^ ^pd w^8^y^j,.m ttbe laiil 
l^re^th of my e^igV^ice f^vcdj^:4n4 ftojv,? ai^h^pRyy 
He b^ p^rdofjed^ tl^ EteifWUy M^^jftlJii ; ?«Mt^^ 
I4ied:^ few boMFs^flflen, ^.b^d ifio^ ^?^^.]?^%? 
And i»ib« y/ilt tbq^ b^ t9^orrow^jif^ tbis^y^tbpu 
dost |iot r<?pent,? B^old thp ;^OjHt? ^^V^^P^Xfl^^X 
the copte^t, XfrcJ-A^P ba? appl^f^ ji^^jis.ariger^ 
nations shall sJ^y each other. , To«iporrovvf the ppisf 
of the battle vyiV leave thee- no ti|^ tp colled tby 
souL- Poit,— -O do it to-day,, if- tbou regard thy 
leten^} ss^vatiyfi^^nd^et. tbisb^thy £rst repent^t 
resolution, that on; \\fY own acpount, tbou nev^ 
again wilt slay thy brother. Be great enough, be- 
fore men and angels, be great enough to say, when 
another demands thy blood, '' No, I will never give 
it ; I dare not; my God forbids; I will not do what 


God forbids. I will use my life to honour Him^ 
and serve tny neighbour.'^ Fear not that he will 

K 2 

C 1S2 ] 

take thy life without resistance. If he be base 
enough to do sOj let him take it. What is the loss 
of life to an immortal^ i redeemed soul ? Pre- 
pare thyself for death, but seek it not; he cannot 
rob thee of the joys of heaven. Dost thou fear the 
bss of temporal advantages ? Lose them, and gain 
ttemal ones. Sacrifice thy profession, if thy brethren 
be mad enough to force thee to it* Degrade thyself 
ik the eyes of the world, and be exalted before God. 
U'my Aristus, how trifling appear all worldly ad- 
vantages, when we stand above the world i One 
iay we shall all 'be forced to render an account, an 
acbount of out unthin^cing lives, an account that 
we respeded a received opinibn more than the clear 
law of God'; that we stifled all the feelkigs of 
Our soul, and madly plunged ourselves in death, of 
wtiich the dread ' waa not in vain implanted in out 

liitdre* ^0 Aristus, repent! Thy redeemed fnend 

intreata thee. Be saved, like him ! 

^ ■ « w 

- - K 

C l»3 ] 



THE hour was come^ thathour by thee so dreaded^ 
yet for which thou hadst been so long prepared ; the . 
hour was come^ that took me from thee^— from your 
world— i^r ever } but how short is the for ever of 
your world ! The first violence of thy grief is now 
assuaged i assuaged by religion alone. So long I 
waited before I wrote to thee^i thou best beloved I-r* 
How afleAionate was thy wish that thou mightest be 
the deserted one ! Now is that wish fulfilled ; but 
hast thou strength for the trial ? O pray to GoDj^ 
devoutly pray^ for strength ! Thou art weak^ and 
yet I blame thee not. It ia so short a time since t 
was in the earthly body, that I know iu|l well how 

* Cidli is the name given to Jairus's daughtar in a beau* 
tiful episode in the Messiah. By this name Klopstock had 
been accustomed to distbguish his Meta^ in such of his poen^s 
as were addressed to her. She wrote this and the following 
letter on the supposition that her Husband was dead, and 
probably in consequence of a conversation in which she ex* 
pressed a wish that she might be the survivor* 

C 134 1 

hard it is to soar to the higher virtues* This is exalted 
virtue, to bear the cross as the Almighty wills ! 
I know my Cidii muTtnurs not ; I see thee bear thy 
cross with resignation; but, my Cidtli, thou art too 
much d^efted. The grief, the melancholy that 
dwell so deeply in thy heart, thou seekest not to 
restrain, but rather feedest them to the utmost. To 
weep is now thy comfort, and thou tbinkest that 
thou hasit done enough if thou dost weep in silence* 
But that is not enough. Thou must wipe away thy 
tears, and tear thyself from solitude. Thou must 
take an interest in all creation, and in the whole 
}iuman race. Whilst thou art in the world, tbe 
duty of being useful never ceases, and thou canst be 
useful, my Cidli. Though I am dead, and God no 
jonger gives us the blessing of connubial life, the 
^greatest happiness on earth, — though He has left us 
childless, — think not that ihy conne6lion with the 
world has ceased. Go seek out children, seek out 


friends ! Let all whom thou canst teach to love the 
Eternal, be thy friends, be thy children. I know,tpy 
Cidli, that on readingthis, thou wilt tear'thyselffrom 
thy griefj thou who dost so earnestly endeavour to 
do thy duty; and for this reason I am, permitted to 
use this means indulged to so few.— my Cidii^ 

[ 135 1 

how I have loved thee! How did my soul hang on 
thy 6oul ! and how well didst thou deserve it ! Such 
love as ours was pleasing to the Almighty ; 
because we forgot not Him ; because we thanked 
Him that we had found each other, and worshipped 
Him together! 

O my only love, how often have I seen thee raise 
thine eyes to Heaven, with all the full devotion of 
thy heart ! How did I then thank God for giving 
me this soul, so certainly appointed to be blessed ! 
€ro, Cidli, teach it to the world, to those who do not 
believe it pos^ble at once to love and pray, teach that 
pure love, which itself is virtue, and pleasing to God, 
But^ Cidli, what was this to the love which I now feel? 
I love thee so, that even in heaven my heart longs 
for thee. O when thou once art here; with me to 
worship, to worship here — ^face to fcice I A holy 
awe now seizes me : O Cidli, who can speak of the 
joys of Heaven ? How wilt thou then feel ? Thou 
shalt come to us, my chosen one. Fear not on ac« 
count of the sins which now disturb thy peace. I 
will not call them trying. What we term failings, 
«rc^ before the Holy One, great crimes. But the 
love with which He pardons is unspeakable. The 
Ailgel^ whO| invisible to tbecj brings tbia^ will still 

C 138 ] 

Cidli. How can I support the thought! Yet 
ncfer, never can I drive the image ironi my soul, 
from before my eyes. Thy closing eye, thy failing 
Toice^ thy trembling, cold^ and dewy band^ which 
yet pressed mine when thou couldst speak no more« 
Now it grew weak the gentle pressure, O yet I feel 
it ! and now yet weaker ; and now it was stiff I 
I cannot, I cannot support the recoUeAion, But 
ihy last blessing, that shall comfort me, — thy part- 
ing benedi6lion ! ** Come quickly after me !** 
How fervently did I ask it with thee, thou already 
blessed; and how incessantly do I now repeat the 
prayer. But thou wert dead ; I had thee now no 
nore, and now no more thy body over which I hung 
continually, when the beavenly soul bad left it; 
now, not even that ; I am now alone. How can 
I support it, I who never could endure the absence 
af a single day from thee ! I have no son whom I 
might teach to. be like his father; no daughter who 
might weep with her mother ! I am alone, and 
desolate ! 

O thou, my heavenly friend, if thou still have any 
influence on me, let it work in me for good, and 
inake me mild, resigned, willing to do what duty 
fV({iuTes ; let it make me worthy of thy love ! Thou 

r 1^7 J 

BiU i will indeed awake. I will tear myself 
from grief. I will live for the world in which 
I am; I will do what duty requires; I will no 
longer sleep.— O that my remaining time, time 
now so blank and dead to me, O that it might be 
short ! Forgive, thou Ever Merciful, forgive the 
hasty wish ! Not as I will, but as Thou wilt ! 
Wert thou yet with me, my only love, wert thou, 
in thy earthly body, yet with me to support my 

weakness! So should every man support the 

companion of his life, and ho^ amiably didst 
thou perform this duty ! I may remind thee how 
willingly I followed. To obey thee was my -pride. 
What woman would not have obeyed thee, thoa 
e)fcellent, thou upright man^ thou Christian ! But 
I have thee now no longer— thy encouragement, thy 
example, thy assistance, 1 am desolate ! My wish 
IS beard ; the wish of my tenderness, when in its 
utmost purity^ it rose fib the greatest height : thou 
art gone before me. Till now I knew not what I 
asked, but even now I thank Him who heard my 
prayer; I thank Him that thou hast not to suffer 
what I suffi^r.— — Th6u didst grieve, yes, my h^t 
beloved,, amidst the agonies of death, amidst the 
^totaste of thy bliss,. I^ saw tby grief &r tby dcucrtwl 

[ 140 ] 



I Once told my Meta, that I thought a dialogue, 
if written by one or two friends^ would appear most 
natural. We also wished to do this for the sake of 
leaving a memorial to the last of us who should 
repain, and to our friends. This unfinished trifle 
was the consequence of this fancy. I earnestly wish 
that I could reco1le£i: some of her serious conver* 
sations with me, so as to write ihem down ; for 
what a heart had she, and what a quick, and at the 
s^me time accurate understanding ! 

Meta. Do you consider the immortality of Fame 
as a chimera of pride ? Or is the attainment of it 
worthy the endeavours of a sensible and upright man ? 

* '< That lasting fame and perpetuity of praise, which Goi> 
#< and good n^en have consented shall be the reward of thosQ 
«< whose published labours advance the good of mankind." 

[ HI ] 

Klopstock. I consider fame as a means to kc* 
quire friends even after our death. How sweet and 
how suitable is it to a sensible man to have friends^ 
even then. 

Meta. Yet many of those who are become im* 
mortal^ have ridiculed the endeavour to become so. 
And besides, how eoid, in general, are those friends 
after death ! 

Klopsiock. Often do people ridicule what they 
wish and seriously endeavour to obtain ; either 
because they despair of obtaining it, or because thqr 
know how much their endeavour is blamed, when ib 
obje£l is too plainly discovered. Their ridicule us 
therefore not sincere. They 'ar» either attempting to 
conceal their aim from others, or they are unwilling 
to acknowledge to themselves their secret wish. He 
who deserves immortality will never be a cold friend 
to one who is already immortal. 

Meta* A few warm friends are better than a great 


many cold ones. — But as to the first part of your 
answer, I cannot be convinced that all these great 
men dissembled in this point. They considered 
glory as something so little, that the attainment ^f 
eveti its highest step, immortality, appeared scarcely- 
worthy to be wished. 

[ U2 ] 

Khpsioci. tf they really considered immortality 
is^ao little a thing, they certainly never thought of 
their usefulness; they never considered how much it 
conne£ls us with posterity. I hold true glory to be 
as congenial to the simplicity of nature^ as I think 
vanity is opposite to it. 

Meia. I grant that the desire of true glory is coiu 
genial to our . nature* I grant, further, that great 
a&ions, and good writings, if contemplated and read 
by the whole world, are useful to a wide extenf, 
put these actions should be performed^ these works 
should be written, without the intention of thereby 
gainii^ immortality* The love of fame is too en- 
ticing a seducer. It leads Mi imperceptibly to coa- 
sider glory not as a means of beipg useful^ but as 
an end, in itself worthy to be attained ; and thus^ 
though our undertakings lose not their usefijilness^ 
it robs us of our moral worth, by changing our 
intention in them. 

Khpstock* Usefulness should undoubtedly be the 
first objed in our undertakings. How worthless is 
the iounortality of those who have obtained it 
without being useful ! I do not believe ths^t true 
glory will ever seduce us to consider her as our cbi^f 

C M3 ] 

objed. She is always too much conne6led with 
our duty, and with usefulness, — But if we be useful, 
why should we not rejoice to gain, at the same time, 
this pure, this innocent glory ? 

Meta. I should be too rigid, did I wish to forbid 
all joy in the prospe£t of immortal fame ; but to in* 
dulge it very seldom, and with great moderation, is 
not too severe advice. It is so easy to mistake the 
meana for the end. 

JSHopstock. What I have hitherto called the love 
of glory, is in particular the wish to be loved and 
valued by posterity, as we wish to be by our con*- 
temporaries ; or as I said at first, it is a wish to collet 
friends. This wish will not easily lead us to any 
thing but the frequent and varied ^deas of the use we 
may be of to those friends. How many does Young 
rouse from the slumber of thoughtlessness or in- 
difference I And those who are no longer thought- 
less or indifferent, how does .he animate their 
feelings ! How raise them to his own I How does 
he teach them to worship Goi>, to be Christians t 
And the prospe^ the foretaste of all this*— shall it 
not be allowed ? Is it not high and heavenly joy ? 


C 144 ] 

Mr. Klopstock^ in continuation. 

I Have frequently debated with myself whether I 
should attempt to describe my Meta*s charader. I 
am bound not only to the public, but to her, to 
avoid every flfpp^arjwce of exaggeration, and how few 
are there whose hearts will justify them in believing 
that what I must say is not beyond the truth ! Td 
those few, I can with one stroke give a general idea 
of her charaAer, She was formed to say with Arria, 
" Paetus, it is not painful.'* — But these are the readers 
who would most wish to know the particular features 
of such a charader. They will find some of them 
in the following fragments of letters written sinc^ 
our msLrriage. *- We had never been separated, ex- 
cept for two months, during which those letters were 
written. She lived only two months more afler niy 
return. Since I write this sketch chiefly to speak 
of her death, it appears to me essential to make 
known something 6f what passed in our minds du- 
ring a separation which, both to me, and to her, was 
a preparation for it. 

But before I make the extrafts, let me be permitted 
to say a little more of her.-*About three years ago 

C 145 3 

she undertook lo write my life, and this is her in- 
tfoduftion to it. 

^^ All that concerns Klopstock, and all that he 
does, is so important in my eyes, that I can no longer 
resist the^wish to preserve in writing what I observe 
in him, and what to me appears most worthy of ob- 
servation. I intend to confine myself to what relates 
to his charafter, and whatever has any connexion 
with the Messiah ; but loving him as I do, many 
little trifles which concern our mutual attachment, 
our marriage, and myself, will naturally intrude. I 
shall observe no order of time, but shall write what 
my heart now feels, what I now remark, or what 
I have long since remarked, and of which I am now 

She says afterwards, — ^* As he knows that I 
delight to hear whatever he composes, he always reads 
it to me immediately, though it be often only a i^w 
verses. He is so far from opinionated, that on this 
first reading I am to make my criticisms, just as they 
come into my head." 

How much do I lose in her even in this respe£l! 
How perfect was her taste, how exquisitely^ fine her 
feelings ! She observed every thing, even to the 
slightest turn of the thought. I had only to look at 


[ 14« ] 

her^ and could see in her &ce when even a syllable 
pleased or displeased her ; and when I led her to 
explain the reason of her remarks^ no depfionstration 
could be more true^ more accurate^ or more appro* 
priate to the subje£):. But in general this gave ut 
verv little trouble* for we understood each other when 
we had scarcely begun to explain our ideas. 


iTamburgy Aug. 2dy 1758. 
Did you go three times the distance to the post, 
only to see me for one minute more ? Do not ima- 
gine I think this a small matter. It confirms me 
in my old suspicion^ that you have indeed a little^ 
love for me. If you could see me to-day, I know 
you would love me dearly. No one could know by 
my appearance that you had left me. The thought 
that grief might hurt our child, (for I have' too 
severely felt the few teart which I could not re- 
strain,) that ii would displease you> and be ingrati- 
tude for our otherwise so great happiness, makes me 
so resigned that I am almost easy. I cannot indeed 
banish the thought of you, nor do I wish it ; but I 
can view it in such a light that it does not disturb 

[ 147 ] 

•mc. Our God is with you, and will restore you to 
the arras of your wife ! 

August 3. 

I am well, and have continued a heroine; though 
I am obliged to be very watchful against my enemy, 
who lies in ambush, and shoots like a Hanoverian 
rifleman. In earnest, when I think I have the 
utmost command of myself, the thought of you 
often seizes me so suddenly, that it costs me much 
trouble to compose myself again. The most trifling 
circumstances often occasion this. 

Now come, Eliza,* and write your certificate. '^I 
hereby certify upon my honour, thatMeta Klopstock 
behaves so well as to astonish me continually. / 
would not be easy, — certainly not, — though I had 
promised my husband a thousand times. I am half 
angry that she is so. It is too much love for a hus- 
band to be easy purely out of tenderness for hinn.*', 

They waked me this morning to give me your 
letter, and I got the head-ach ; but that pain was 
pleasure. Yesterday evening I had some obscure 
notion of a letter, but could not imagine how it 
should come. I never thought of Schonburg 5 but 

* Mrs. Klopstock's sister, who was married to Mr. 


L 2 

t 1« ] 

you thought of it ! You could not help writing ; 
yes, that is natural, for you love me, / could not 
have helped writing neither. 

August 4* 

I wish the nights were not so dark. I have each 
night had a strong inclination to rise, and write to 
beg you would return ; but do not suppose that I 
indulge this thought. — Yet if the wind has not 
changed, you might perhaps arrive on Monday, and 
see G — , and return on Wednesday. Ah, then I 
should have you again for that short time ! 

Yes, ray dear Klopstock, God will give us what 
in his wisdom He sees good for us; and if any thing 
be wanting to our wishes. He will teach us to bear 
that want. 

August 7^ my Father's dying day. 

Are you really gone ? The wind was west this 
morning, but it is changed again to the east ; our 
God be with thee ! Believe me I trust in Him 
alone, and am convinced that the way by which He 
leads us isAhe best for us. 

August 10. 

Where are you now? Still in the ship, I fear, for 
you have had very unfavourable winds. May God 
have preserved you from thunder-storms 1 They bav« 

C 1*9 ] 

been my greatest dread. We have had violent hear^, 
but no thunder. Last night it was very very dark. 
I could not help being anxious about you^ but it was 
not such anxiety as would have been ingratitude for 
my great happiness j it was tenderness which I can 
never cease to feel. God be with you^ and grant 
that I may hear from you on Tuesday ; but even if 
it should not be sp^ I will not be sp uneasy as to 
burt my health. 

I was ready by eight o'clock. Oh^ if you had comq 
home ! How I wished for you I It is hard^ very 
hard^ after having lived withyou^ to live without you! 

August 16. 

Goo be praised ! I have your letter. O what 
joy ! What shall I feel when I have you again ! 
I know not what I write. I i^eceived your letter at 
table. I could eat no more. The tears started from 
my eyeS| and I went into my own room. I could 
only thank Gop with my tears; but He under- 
Stands our tears I 

Klopstock to Mbta. 

Bemsi, Jugmi 16. 
Mr Meta^ were both the nights so dark ? They 
were indeed j but God preserved me from all the 

[ 150 ] 


dangers which you feared. But now you have my 
letter, and you have already thanked our God that 
He has protected me. Let us together thank Him 
that you and our child are well. I know how you 
think of me. I know it by my own feelings. It often 
comes so strongly into my mind that you are with 
me, that I am ready to press you to my heart. My 
only Love, what will be the joy of meeting ! 
Depend on it, I shall return as joon as possible. 

Meta to Klopstock. 

August 24. 

I Am getting through all my letters, all my visits, 
all my employments, agreeable or disagreeable, that 
when you come, I may live for you alone. 

Yet I will really, in earnest, gladly do without you 
till moonlight comes, though I tremble in^cvery 
nerve when I think of seeing you again. 

I am, thank God, very well. I have nothing of 
the illness which I felt during the last week. 

From Klopstock. 

\ Copenhagen^ Sept. 2. 

My beloved Meft§ how sweet it is to receive such 
letters from you ! My confidence that God will 

C "» ] 

^pare you toVne yet remains ; though I cannot say 
that now and then a cloud docs not come over it. 

There are lighter and heavier hours of trial. 
These are some of the heaviest. Let us take care, 
my dear Meta, that we resign, ourselves wholly to 

our Goo. This solemn thought often occupies me* 


What think you of writing on it to each other, to 
strengthen usv? O how my heart hangs on thine 1 

To Klopstock. 

September 7. 
I Shall indeed be in continual misery, if September 
passes without your return. I shall be always expeft. 
ing to be confined, and to die without you. This 
would destroy all the peace of which I wish to tell you, 
for, God be praised, I am strong enough to speak of 
my death. I have omitted it hitherto only on your 
account; and I am happy that I need no longer re* 
frain from it. Yet let me be as uneasy as I will, do 
nothing that may hurt your health. I ought not to 
have told you of my fears; but I find it as impossible 
in a letter, as when I am with you, to conceal any 
thing which presses on mv heart. I have left no 
room to tell you of my pe^cf|0r my courage, but I 
will do it another time* 

[ 152 ] 

Klopstock to Meta. 

September IS, 
Mt poor little Meta, your letter yesterday* made 
me quite miserable. I know not how you could 
discover from my letter that I should be so long in 
coming. I feel with you the whole weight of ab- 
sence; but do not torment yourself with tjie idea 
that you may die^ and die without me. Neither is 
at all probable. You will perhaps think that I speak 
coldly on the subjed^ but this coldness of reason if 
necessary to us both, not only that we may not injure 
ourselves by giving way to gloomy fears, but also that 
we may be the better able to submit with perfect re-- 
signation to the will of our God. This perfect re* 
signation isone ofthe most difficult, ^nd at the same 
time most consoling duties of Christianity. These 

days of our separation are days of trial, which call 


on us lo recoljeft that we are tried, — Even the most 
innocent and virtuous love should be subservient to 
the love of God. I have read again my ^* Ode on 
the Omnipotence of God," which I am printing in 
the Northern Speflator, and my ideas ofthe universal 
presence of Him who alone deserves our adoration 

* Her letter dated September 7. 

C 153 ] 

became very strong. When God gives me grace 
to pursue these ideas^ then, my Meta^ I am not far 
from thee ? He surrounds both thee and me. His 
hand is over us* God is where yoU are, God is 
where I am. We depend entirely on Him) much 
more entirely than is generally supposed. We 
depend on Him even in all those things which least 
call our thoughts towards Him. His presence pre- 
serves our breath. He has numbered the hairs of 
our head. My soul is now in a state of sweet com- 
posure, though mixed with some degree of sadness. 
O my Wife, whom God has given to me, be not 
careful — be not careful for the morrow ! 


September 10. 
You must not think that I mean 

any thing more than that I am as willing to die as to 
live, and that I prepare myself for both , for I do not 
allow myself to look on either as a certainty. Were 
I to judge from circumstances, there is much more 
probability of life than death. But I am perfectly 
resigned to either, God's will be done I — I gften 
wonder at the indifference I feel on the subject, when 

[ 1S4 ] 

I am so happy in this world.* O what is our re« 
ligion i What must that eternal state be^ of which 
we know so little^ while our soul feels* so much ! 
More than a life with Klopstock ! It does not now 
appear to me so hard to leave you and our child^ and 
I only fear that I may lose this peace of mind again^ 
though it has already lasted eight months. I well 
know that all hours are not alike^ and particularly 
the last, since death in my situation must be far 
from an easy death ; but let the last hour make no 
impression on you. You know too well how much 
the body then presses down the soul. — Let God give 
what He will, I shall still be happy. A' longer life 
with you, or eternal life with Hhn ! — But can you 
as easily part from me, as I from you ? You are to 
remain in this world, in a world without me ! You 
know I have always wished to be the survivor, be- 
\ cause I well know it is the hardest to endure 3 but 
perhaps it is the will of God that you should be lcft> 
and perhaps you have most strength. — O think where 

• She was veiy grateful for this happiness, but it did not at 
all diminish her desire of a better world. In the last of her 
confessions, which she alwayt used to write, she pray% 
^May God continue to me the readiness which He has 
given me to exchange a life full of happiness fpr a stilt 
happier eternity.'* 

C 155 3 

I am going ; and as far as sinners can judge of each 
other, you may be certain that Igo there, (the humble 
hopes of a Christian cannot deceive,) and there 
you will follow me : there shall we be for ever 
united by love, which' assuredly was not made to 
cease.— So also shall we love our child. At first 
perhaps the sight of the child ^ may add to your 
distress, but it tnust afterwards be a great comfort 
to you to have a child of mine. 1 would wish it to 
survive jne, though I know that most people would 
be of a different opinion. Why should I think 
otherwise ? Do I not intrust it to you and to God ? 
Itis^wilh the sweetest composure that I speak of thisj 
yet I will say no more, for perhaps it may affeft you 
too much, though you have given me leave to speak 
of it. How I thank you for that kind permission ! 
My heart earnestly wished it, but on your account I 
would not indulge the wish.— I have done. I can 
write of nothing else. I am perhaps too serious^ 
but it is a seriousness mixed with tears of joy. 

September 15. 

I Hope, yet tremble, for your letter to-day. O 

take not awi^y my hope ! Set off to-morrow. We 

have had sinte yesterday the finest weather, and the 

best north-east wiud« You will come exaSly with 

[ 156 ] 

the full moon. O set off! Do not rob me of my 
hope. Make me not so unhappy. — Let this be the 
last letter. O come ! 

From Klopstock. 

Bernsi, Sept. 1 0. 

YouK letter to-day, my sweet Wife, has very 
much distressed me.* But before I say any thing of it, 
I must speak of my journey. This letter has agitated 
me so much that I cannot answer it to-day. It hat 
made me not serious only, but deje&ed. May our 
God do with us according to his will. He is the 
all-wise and the all-gracious !{ 

I cannot conceal from you that my absence at this 
time lies particularly heavy on my heart ; yet I must 
also tell you that there are very bright hours to mc^ 
when, though the thought of absence fills my mind, 
I have strength to reiSed with composure that these 
are the hours of trial, and that it is here I must 
submit. All you say in your letter afle£ts me too 
much to-day : otherwise I would gladly speak of it 
with you. The thought of your death affects me 
too deeply; that of absence makes me, for the reason 

* Her letter, dated Sept. 10. 

I 1*7 3 

I have mentioned, cheerful. 1 will tell you how I 

feel a passage in my favourite 139th Psalm. ^' If I 
take the wings of the morning, and remain in the 
uttermost part of the sea, even there also shall thy 
hand hpid me.^' Beyond the uttermost sea, there 
art thou, my Love, and there too is our Goo, atxl 
there does his hand hold thee. It is a very pleasing 
thought ! This I promise you, I will not stay one 
moment from you without absolute necessity; 
and .then when God has given us our child, and 
when the dear mother and her babe are with me,-* 
I turn giddy when I think of it. — I must conclude* 
My whole heart is entirely, unspeakably yours I 

Meta to Klopstock. 

September J8. 
Your thoughtlessness could not have played 
me a worse trick than to send to Soroe the letter in 
which I hoped for certain information respe£ling your 
journey. I know not how I shall feel when I see 
you again. When I think of it, I am agitated as 
when I think of hearing the first voice of my child I 
Yesterday I went an airing for four hours. I could 
go no other way than the road to Lubeck> though I 

[ 158 ] 

well knew you could not come so soon. It was not 
possible for me to drite any other way. Adieu till 
to-morrow. O may the letter to-morrow tell me 
that you have set oflF, — that I have written this letter 
in vain. — O my only beloved, come, come, come ! 

Klopstock to Meta. 

Bernsty Sept. 19- 
O my Meta! you say, " make me not so unhappy, 
but come."* How much that affefts me ! But the 
Captain does not sail till Thursday, as he says, and I 
do not believe he will sail then. He has not yet got 
lading enough. Let us yet endure this little time> 
my only Love ! My whple soul longs to see you 
again, but I must not write of this at present 5 it 
affefls me too much, and I wish to repress this emo- 
tion, becaui^e I wish to wait with composure and sub- 
mission for the day of joy. Do the same, my Meta! 
My hope that God would spare you to me, was yes- 
terday very strong. It became particularly so from 
the good account of your health. But I scarcely 
dare indulge this thought, it afTefts me too pow- 
crfully. — Our God will order all things according 
to his wisdom and love. O whstt true and peaceful 

♦ See her Letter, Sept. 15. 

[ 159 ] 

happiness lies in that thought^ when we give our* 
selves entirely to it. 

I return to you for one moment only to say how 
much I love you, and how tenderly I intreat you to 
feel my absence as little as possible. Compare the 
time when I left you, not knowing when I should 
return; J when I did not return till after so long an 
absence ; and now that I must be only a short time 
absent from you, that my return is so near at hand^ 
that I am only detained a little time by the Captain 
of the vessel, that we have so much reason to hope 
that GroD will bless thee with a healthy child, and me 
with the child and thee ! Let us reflc6k on this hap. 
piness, and be grateful to the Giver. This refleAion 
makes me quite cheerful. I press you to my heart, 
my Meta. 

Copenhagen, Sept. 25. 
At length, my Meta, I am in town to go on 
board. I expert every moment to be called. Our 
God will conduft me. O how I love you, and how 
I rejoice in the thought of our meeting ! 

Lubeck, Sept. f 6. 
I Shall soon be in your arms, my only love. God 
be praised for my prosperous voyage I How I re- 

X In the year 1752. 

[ 160 3 

joice that I shall see you at last ! My Meta, how 
shall we thank our God for having preserved thee to 
me^ and me to thee ! 

To Klopstock. 

September 2(5. 
I Must indulge my fancy, and write to you at 
Lubeck, to Copenhagen no more, now no more, 
God will be with you, I have prayed for you with 
Hy firmest faith. I received your letter just as I 
was beginning to be quite dejefted. I have not time 
to write much. I should now drive every day to 
Wandsbeck to meet you, if I had not for some days 
bad a cold in my head and eyes. This will make 
me not look so cheerful as I should have done if you 
had arrived last week; but otherwise I am per- 
fedlly well. 

This was her last letter to me. She died on the 
fiSth of Nov. 1758. I once thought of writing, from 
what I and my friends in this place can recolleft of 
her last hours, a description of her agonizing, yet 

happy death ; but I could not have gone through 
with it ; at least I should have suffered too much. 
What have I not already suffered in performing my 
resolution of supplying this description, by e^trafts 
from the letters of my friends ! I rejoice that it is 
thus more than replaced. What do we not owe to 
friendship, especially in the great affliSions of life t 
I should not satisfy my own feelings, if on this 
unsought occasion I forbore to mention that besides 
my old friends, I have here found others, particularly 
sibce the death of my wife, who have really sym- 
pathised in my fate. I have often, when I thought 
I was only with strangers, found myself amongst 
friends, I have made this pleasing discovery rather 
from their silence, from a certain manner which I 
observed in them^ than firom what was said of my 
loss. In short, I must say that much friendly 
treatment makes my residence in the native town of 
my beloved wife never to be forgotten by me. ^ 


t i«» i 


Lett€rfs written after the Death ^ 
Mrs. Klop$tock. 

From Elizaseth Schmidt^ the tounosst 
Sister of Mrs. Klopstock. 


' Hamhurgy Dec. 4. 

y^OV have already received the sad account of the 
death of my beloved sister. She di<ed as ahe \mk 
lived) "^with firm courage. She took leave of her 
bttsband. I prayed with her^ and she departed in 
the gentleiit m^ner^ I closed her eyes. I can write 
no more. Thank God, with me^ for the extraordi- 
nary strength, which He bestowed upon me in that 
creadful hour: it surpassed all my natural powers^ 
as my experience fully convinces me. Thank God 
also for the strength, peace, and consolation, which 
he vouchsafes to Klopstock. I trust he will still be 
assisted to surmount this heavy afflidion. 

From Hartman Rahn^ to Schmidt. 

Lubeck, Dec. 4. 
TiiE wise adorable Father in Heaven has callec)^ 
to himself his virtuous child. O thou great Objcft 
of our adoration ! grant that we may die the death 
of this excellent person, — ^ piou^, tranquil, holy 
death ! My poor wife is inconsolabhs, and I must 
comfort her and myself 3 but I am not the Christian 
hero that you are. I praise the Almighty, that 
He has so powerfully supported you in this dreadful 
hour. It is your duty* to assist me in persuading 
Klopstock to come to us. Must not every moment 
passed in Hamburg renew his sufferings and inward 
anguish ? And is not a calm silent anguish, like 
his, more injurious to the health than that which i 
louder and more vehement ? 

From Johanna Victoria Rahn, Klop- 
stock's Sister, to Eliz. Schmidt. 

Lubeck, Dec. 4. 
Mf dear Eliza, how much fiave you all suffered^ 
and with what constancy have you endufed it I May 

* He was married to a sister of Klopttpck. 

M 9 

[ J6^ ] 

God preserve your health ! What I have lost, my 
beloved Eliza, I can find no language to express. I 
loved her more than if she had been my own sister. 
But it was the will of God that thus it should be! 

From Cramer* to Klopstock. 

Copenhagen^ Dec. 5. 
I Am indeed inexpressibly affefiled by the totally 
unexpected intelligence, which has cost me and my 
dearest wife so many tears. What should we be, 
with all our joys, and all our hopes, if eternity did 
not console us, and give us an assurance that we 
shall receive our departed friends again, more glo- 
rious and more perfeft. Yes, my dear friend, God's 
consolations are the only true consolations. Thii 
your glorified Meta, our most beloved friend, felt 
amidst all her suflFerings. This exalted her soul 
above this world at its entrance into her eternal rest; 
and this will also wipe all tears from your eyes. I 
rejoice, though my joy is mingled with sadness^ in 

* Chancellor of the University of Kiel, and Chaplain to 
the King. One of Klopstock's earliest and most highly 
esteemed friends* 

C 165 J 

the mercy which God has shewn towards youbotfa« 
May God support you under the sense of your 
afflidion^ and make you^ through his power^ an 
example of that true sensibility^ which you so often 
describe in your poetical compositions as attendant 
on virtue. You will probably quit Hamburg soon. 
All your friends wish you to do so. May God pre* 
serve your healthy and console^ relieve^ and bless you 
through the power of religion. My wife desires me 
again to assure you, that she takes the warmest and 
tenderest part in your sorrows. 

Once more^ God bless you^ and restore you to 
ease^ comfort^ and joy, with all those who share 
your aiHi£Uon« 

From Funke to Klopstock. 

Copenhagen, Dec. 5. 
What can I write ? I will not make the past 
event my subjeA ; for you must know how deeply 
I sympathise with you. Yet what cap my grief be 
in comparison of yours ? O, coutd I but be at ease 
on your account^ — but I am all anxiety. My heart 
wavers between two objects ; sometimes it turns to 
her who is gone, sometimes to youj but on you it 

[ 166 3 

rests^ for Ae is above our care. Could I in the 
slightest degrfee alleviate your sorrow, I should in st> 
dbifig fiilfil the wish o£ au angel • Dearest friend^ 
will you t)ot cowic to us ? Refaiain not, I intrcat 
you, in a place where every thing around reminds 
ybu of that which is already too deeply engraven on 
your heart. May God give you peace ! May He 
stretigthen and bless you ! 

I wish it were possible that I could render tnyself 
in any manner useful to you; for'^who reveres, who 
loves, more sincerely than I do, the po€ft of the 
Messiah, the Christian, the friend, the beloved of 
our departed angel ? 

Ki^psTocK TO Cramer. 

Haynburgy Dec. 5. 
This is my Metals dying day,* and yet I am 
Composed. Can I ascribe this to myself, my Cranftj? 
Certainly not. I sleep very little, at other times ^ 
eannot do wiihout sleep; and yet I am not ill^-x-oftea 
well. Thanks be to the God of comfort for all the 

fevtour He has shewn me 1 Thank our God, wkh 
me, my Cramer, 

** A week after her death. 

[ i«7 ] 

I will now try to {give you a more circumstantial 
account. Her sufferings continued from Friday titt 
Tuesday afternoon, about four o'clock ; but they 
were the most viojent from Monday evening about 
tight. , On Sunday morning I supported first mysel& 
and then her^ by repeating that without our Father's 
will not a hair in her head could fall ; and more 
thad once I repeated to her the following lines from 
my last Ode. One time I was so much afle&ed 
as to be forced to stop at every line. I was to have 
repeated it all to her, but we were interrupted. 

** Though unseen by human eye, 
** My Redeemer's hand is nigh; 
** He has pour'd salvation's light 
" Far within the vale of night ; 
** There will God my steps controul, 
•* There his presence Uess my soul. 
** Lord, whate'er my sorrows be, 
*♦ Teach me to ,look up to Thee !" 

Some affecting circumstances I must omit; I will 
tell you them some other time. 

When I began to fear for her life, (and I did this 
sooner than any one else,) I from time to time whis- 
pered something in her car concerning God, but 
so as not to let her perceive my apprehensions. I 

r i«8 ] 

know little of what I said; only in general I know 
that I repeated to her how much I was strengthened 
by the uncommon fortitude graciously vouchsafed 
to her; and that I now reuiiiyled her of that to 
which we had so often encouraged each other-** 
perfeft resignation. When she had already suf- 
fered greatly, I said to her with much emotion, 
^^ The Most Merciful is with thee/' I saw how 
she felt it« Perhaps she now first guessed that I 
thought she would die. I saw this in her counte* 
nance. I afterwards often told her, (as often b$> I 
could go into the room, and support the sight of her 
sufferings,) how visibly the grace of God was with 
her. How could I refrain from speaking of the 
great comfort of my soul ! 

I came in just as she had been bled. Alight 
having been brought near on that account, I saw 
her face clearly for the first time after many hours. 
Ah, my Cramer, the hue of death was on it ! But 
that Gop who was so mightily with her, supported 
me too at the sight. She was better after the bleeding, 
but soon woise again. I was allowed but very little 
time to take leave of her. I had some hopes th4t 
I might return to pray with her, I shall nevercease 
to thank God for the grace He gav^ me at this part*- 

ing. I said, ^' I will fulfil my promise^ my Meta^ 
and tell you that your life, from extreme weakness, 

IS in danger." ^You must not expeft me to relate 

every thing to yon. I cannot recolleS the whole. 
She heard perfeftly, and spoke without the smallest 
difficulty. I pronounced over her the name of the 
Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost. ** Now the 
will of Him who inexpressiHy supports thee, — his 
will be done!'* • Let him do according to hh 
will,' said she ; * He will do welL' She said 
this in a most expressive tone of joy and confidence. 
*^ You have endured like an angel. God has been 
with you. He will be with you. His mighty name 
be praised ! The Most Merciful will support you 1 
Were I so wretched as not to be a Christian, I should 
now become one." Something of this sort, and yet 
more, 1 said to her, in a strong emotion of trans* 

port. Eliza says we were both full of joy. ^* Be 

my guardian angel, if our God permit/* * You 
have been mine,* said she. *^ Be my guardian 
angel," repeated I, *^ if our God permit.*' ^ Who 
would not be so,* said she. I would have hastened 
away. Eliza said, " Give her your hand once more.'* 
I did so, and know not whether I said any thing, 
I hasted away,— then went into my own room, and 

[ 170 ) 

prayed. God gave me much strength in prayer j J 
asked for perfect resignation ; — but how was it, my 
Cramer, that I did not pray for her, which would 
have been so natural ? Probably because she was 
already heard above all that I could ask or think 1— 
When I was gone out, she again^ asked Eliza 
whether it was likely she might die, and whether 
b^r death was bo near? Once she told her that 
she felt nothing. Afterwards she felt some pain* 
She said to Eliza that God had much to forgive in 
berj but she trusted in her Redeemer. On another 
occasion Eliza said to her that God would helpber; 
she answered, ^* into Heaven." As her head 
sunk on the pillow, she said, with much animation^ 
*' It is over!'* She then looked tenderly on Eliza, 
and with yet unfixed eyes listened while she thus 
prayed, "The blood of Jesus Christ cleanse 
thee from all sin.*' O sweet words of eternal life ! 
After some expressions of pain in her countenance^ ' 
it became again perfeftly serene, — and thus sbediedl 
I will not complain, my Cramer; I will be 
thankful that in so severe a trial God has so strength- 
ened me. ^ 

At parting she said to me very sweetly, *' Thou 
wilt follow me !'* May my end be like thine ! 

might I now, for one moment^ weq) on her bosom ! 
For I cjuinot refrain from tears^ nor does God re- 
quire it of me. 


Quedlinburg^ Dec.\ 6. 

Though I have already frequently taken up the 
pen^ apd laid it down again^ yet I once more resume 

it, to assure you^ that my H and I weep with 

you, and pray for you. Who amongst all your 
friends is better qualified to pity you than I am ? 
Who has known her longer, who was better ac» 
quainled with her ? What a friend have I myself 
lost in her ! — 

I know but too well what you must sufier. I fee' 
in all its dreadful force this sudden separation from 
your departed saint, after having been blest for so 
short a time with her society; and the annihilation 
of the best, the noblest, and the most rational hopes 
of happiness on earth. . And although I know that 
this separation will not be for ever, and that your 
hopes are not all annihilated, yet I tremble for the 

* Ooe of Klopstock's academical frieDds, and much be- 
loved by him. 

[ 172 ] 

confliA which you must at present encjure. Yours 
is a hcjavy trial ; but, my dear friend, God, who 
lays it upon you, will not leave you without support. 
^ has given me great pleasure by the as- 
surance that God has already begun to glorify 
Himself in you ; for you have said, ^*She is not far 
from tne.*' Indeed to a Christian the distance is 
not great between earth and heaven. MayGoD 
confirm in you the consolation arising from this 
important truth ! And now, my dear Klopstock, 
exert all your strength, and consider that you owe 
an example to your friends, and to your readers. 
Lament the loss of your Meta, with all the tender- 
ness which she deserves : we lament it with you j 
but we intreat you not to yield too much to your 
affliftion, reasonable as it is. Consider your im- 
portant vocation. Consider your friends, your mo- 
ther, your sisters. Your dear mother will write 
herself; you may easily imagine what she stifFers; 
but it will be a great relief to her mind, to know 
that you are not entirely depressed by your afflidion. 

[ 173. ] 
Elizabeth Schmidt to Gieseckb. 

Hamburg, Dec. 6. 
How much pleasure would your letter and your 
sweet Ode* have given me, had I received them at 
another time. Bui now, I have scarcely been able 
to read the Ode; — it affefts me too much. What 
I feel, you may easily imagine. What have I not 
lost 1 But 1 will not — I must not complain. Klop- 
stock forbids me. I have now first learnt the full 
power of religion. But I will to-day write nothing 
but a circumstantial account of our beloved friend's 
last hours. She endured her sufferings with for- 
titude and resignation seldom equalled. Klopstock, 
who had determined not to leave her, could not sup- 
port it. He went out, and came in again, all night 
long. About ten in the morning, from extreme 
fatigue no doubt, she had some faintings ; but they 
lasted only a short time, and then she came to'herself 
again. She was always patient. She smiled on 
Klopstock, kissed his hand, and spoke quite cheerfully. 
* Now the trying scene began. Klopstock went 
in, and informed his wife that her life was in danger. 
She answered with perfect composure, *^ What our 

• This gentleman was a much-admired lyric poet. 

i m 1 

God wills is right!'* They took le&vcof each other; 
but that I will not describe. Klopstock shall do it 


himself after a while. When he was gone, I went to 
the bed, and said, ^' I will stay with you/' ^ God 
bless you for it, my Eliza!* said she, and she lo<»ked 
at me with the calm serene smile of an angeK She 
then said to me, '* Is my death then so near V '^ I 
cannot pronounce that," I answered. ^ Yes — my 
husband has told me all that may happen. I know 
all.' ** I know too that you are prepared for all. 
You will die tranquil and happy." * Oh, God 
must then forgive me much; but I think of my 
Redeemer, in whom I trust.' 

At one time she said, ' I do not feel much, 
Eliza; very little.' *^ O that is well ! God will 
soon help you." ^ Yes, to Heaven^* said she.— 
Now she was still, but appeared to feel pain. Soon 
after she laid her head back, and said, * It is over !' 
and at the same moment her face became so com- 
posed, that the change was observable to every one. 
A mon^ent before it expressed nothing but pain, 
now nothing but peace. I began to pray, in short 
exclamations, such as she had taught me, and thus, 
after a few minutes, she died;— so soft, so still, 
so calm I ■ ■ ' ■ 

[ 175 ] 


On Monday she was buried, with her son in her 
arms, in the same grave where three of my children 
now rest 5 for you do not yet know that, a week 
before, I lost my youngest little girl. Think what 
I, weak as I am, have lived through) but thank God 
with me, who so supematurally strengthened me, 
that I was able, with courage and firmness not my 
own, to stand by our Meta in her last moments. 

God preserve you and thoRe you love ! God 
preserve fiopstock, to whom He now gives such 
uncommon grace and support. I can write no more. 
I wish you may be able to read this. ' 


Luncburgy Dec. g. 
Comfort— ah, who can comfort you ? From 
the hand which has smitten you, can you alone 
ezpe*& it; and to a man, who, like you, has been 
accustomed to make the noblest feelings of religion 
his employment, I think this is already a source 
of consolaticm. May God give it to you in the fullest 
measure ; and pour the balm of heavenly peace into 
your wounded heart 1 Offer up aN to Him, and you 

* Rs&oT of a public (chool* 

t I7« ] 

will receive all from Him. After this separationy 
though a short one, from lier you love, (whom God 
will restore to you, and restore in glory,) your path 
must indeed appear more lonely, more rough and 
tedious; but what is it compared with that eternity, 
that blissful eternity to which it leads ? When the 
short dream of life is over, when the dismal phan- 
toms vanish, at the brightness of the everlasting day, 

*« Then shall no fate again divide the souls 

«' Which, Nature, thou didst for each other form-'* * 

H. Rahn ^o E. Schmidt. 

Lubeckf Dec. 9. 
You must allow me, my dear Eliza, to make 
some remarks on your letter. That for soma hours 
every day you talk with Klopstock of nothing but 
Meta, and try to recolleft all her Jast words, looks, 
and a6lions, and in so doing are not melancholy, 
only tranquilly and sweetly sad, (these are your own 
words;) this I fear is food for his affliftion, and 
food which, though sweet, will rather keep up than 
allay the emotions which deprive him of necessarj^ 

* From one of Klopstock's Odes. 

f 171 3 

rest. That God can wonderfully strengthen and 
support him,— -Ah, my Eliza, how can I doubt it J 
But, my dearest friend, is U the less our duty to use 
e^ery possible human precaution to cut off all sus- 
tenance to his secret grief and pain ? I am sure 
you will pardon me for venturing to name to you 
things which you know better' than I do; because it 
is often, and particularly in such circumstances, not 
quite useless to be reminded of what we well know. 
One thing more I must say ; that I envy you for 
having been present at the death of our blessed sister. 
What may not be learnt from every death-bed, and 
what must not you have learnt from such a death 1 
God give a blessing to it in your soul, in time, and 
in eternity I 

Cramer to KLOPsxocit. 

Copenhagen, DeCk 12. 
1 Thank you for the letter which I received from 
you by the last post. How much were wc affefted 
by the interesting account which it gave us of the 
sufferings of our sainted friend, of her fortitude, of 
the comfort which you afforded her, and of your 
own noble sensibility ! Our tears again flowed. But 


C irs ] 

in the midst of the melancholy Interest which vre 
take in your loss, (might we not rather, in a religious 
sense, call it gain?) we feel much satisfai^on in 
the proper and Christian-like state of your mind. 
Thus is our God, the All-Merciful, ever at our 
right hand during the most awful trials. May He 
still continue with you ! And we sincerely wish 
that He may strengthen and console you ever more 
and more ! In the mean time endeavour^ first through 
gratitude to Him, and next through friendship for 
us, to take all possiblecareof your health, which is so 
precious to us. I must intreat you most earnestly, 
if it be in your power, to return with L » I 
repeat my wish. May God strengthen you, com* 
fort you, and give you peace through the power of 
religion, ever more and more ! I am, with the 
warmest friendship, entirely your's. 

E. Schmidt to Klopstock's Mother. 

Hamburg y Dec. 12. 
God will and must comfort us all. He will 
comfort and support us with his grace, that we may 
be able to bear the heavy cross which He has laid 
on us, according to his will. 

[ ns ] 

Your chief anxiety must now be for your deat 
son; and I wish you could yourself see him. What 
a miracle does God exhibit in him. He presents 
an example to us all how powerfully God supports 
those who are his, even under the most trying cir- 
cumstances. You will readily believe that we do 
our utmost to cheer and amuse our dear brother — 
but you could better imagine it, if you knew how 
much we all love your son. How I, in particular^ 
respeQ; and love him, I cannot express to you. I 
loved my blessed sister most tenderly, that is known 
(o all who were acquainted with us; but I now feel 
that I do not love our Klopstock less than I loved 
her. You may hence conclude, that from my heart 
I shall do every thing that can in any degree con- 
tribute to soothe his grief. He will probably write 
to you himself, and tell you, that on account of his 
health, he does not intend to travel this winter, but 
will wait till spriil^ 

The night before her death I was alone with her. 
She suffered much, but with great composure. She 
talked a good deal to me. O happy hours which 
God gave me with her^ even then, though deeply 
tinged with sorrow! Amongst other things shesaid^ 
*' O Eliza, how should I now feci, if I had not cm- 

N 2 

C i«o ] 

ployed the whole nine months in preparing for my 
death ! Now my pains will not suffer me to pray 
so continually^ to think so worthily of God^ as I 
am at other times accustomed^ and would now most 
wish to do/' 

GiESECKE TO E. Schmidt. 

Suedlmburg, Dec. 13, 
Your letter has anticipated mine. On Wed- 
nesday it was not possible for me to write more^ after 
my letter to Klopstock. How much you must have 
suffered, my dear Eliza ! Out of Hamburg there is 
no one who can be so sensible of that as I am, be- 
cause I best know how much you loved our departed 
saint. The loss of her must at any time have been 
a severe misfortune to you; but to lose her at such 
a time, and in such a manner ! But Klopstock for- 
bids you to murmur, — he who has lost much mor.ej 
and who can judge of your feelings by his own. 
How dear is he to me ! How much do I grieve 
for him as my own friend and yours, so nearly allied 
to you, — worthy to have possessed his beloveds- 
worthy to lament her loss— and (yet may it be late!) 
worthy to receive her again in a better world. 

[ 181 ] 

I thank you for the circumstantial account ^hich 
you have given me of our Meta*s death^ though 
you have not answered all the questions which I 
should wish to ask. I thank my dear Klopstock for 
requesting you to give me this account. Deeply do 
my H — and I feel and participate in your loss ! On 
that which we ourselves have sustained I will be 
silent. — • 

We sympathise with you in the death of your 
youngest daughter. Three of your children have 
now past into eternity; and we shall all follow those 
who are already departed. May God support us 
with his consolation as often as we shall undergo a 
separation from those whom we love. Though we 
arc to submit to every cs^lamity ordained by Him^ He 
does not forbid a settled^ soft melancholy: such is^ I 
know^ the melancholy of Klopstock; such is yours; 
such ought mine to be also. But even the softest 
melancholy may become prejudicial to us. Let not 
this be the case with you and Klopstock. Encou- 
rage him, when you shall find a favourable oppor- 
tunity^ to take a journey to Quedlinburg ; it will 
afford great consolation to his mother^ who is most 
anxiously concerned for him^ and greatly afflided on 
\lqt owa account at th« loss of such a beloved daugh*» 

[ 182 1 

ter-in-law, who, as she is continually repeating, 
was entirely formed for her son. We will mourn 
with him ; and when he shall be able, he shall 
give me an account of his parting with his be- 
loved, God tries him by severe affli<Slion ; but he 
will find him faithful. And consider, my dear Eliza^ 
how you have yourself been supported. I did not 
imagine you could have survived this event, though 
I am sensible that God gives us the strength which 
is requisite for us. 

Your intelligence is too distressing to admit of 
my dwelling any longer on the subjeft at present. 
It is evident that Klopstock has fully resigned him- 
self to the will of that God, who gave to him his 
Meta, without doubt that he might enjoy her society 
for a longer time than the short period of four tran« 
sitory years. 

May God comfort you, your ppor Mother, your 
sister Dimpfel, and all who participate in your sor- 
rows. F— — and G assure Klopstock of their 

sincere sympadt^ How many excellent people 
mourn his loss ! ^ 

[ 185 ] 

Mrs. R1EDEN6ER TO Klopstock*s Mother. 

Leipsickj Dec. 15. 
Yo u can scarcely imagine how much I was af- 
fefted by the death of your amiable and virtuous 
daughter. How great is the loss of a husband in 
such a wife, and how great that of a whole family in 
su6h a sister and friend ! I sympathise with you 
most cordially. But who, without guilty can murmur 
against the decrees of an All-wise Providence? GoD 
has removed this excellent woman from the world, 
in order to render her more perfeft. Her painful 
death has been but her passage into that eternal 
Mate, in which she is now far happier than we are. 
Yet we may hope to become sharers in her felicity^ 
and to mett her again, never to be parted more. 
How much satisfaction does it-afford me that I have 
enjoyed an acquaintance with this heroic woman ! 
But it A'as not permitted to continue in this world ; 
that happiness \ reserved for another ! 

Funks to Klopstock. 

Copenhageriy Dec. 18. 
How kind is my dearest Klopstock in allowing 
me the melancholy satisfaction of talking to him of 

[ isi ] 

his loss ! How high a value does it give your friend 
in his own eyes, to hear that by his letter he has 
has darted a beam of cheerfulness into the soul of 
Klopstock ! You wish, my dear friend, that I may 
soon write again. How can I, for a single day, 
delay to fulfil so flattering a request ? What is a 
letter, compared with what I would do for you, if I 
had the power ? 

I praise God with you, dearest friend, for the 
peace He has vouchsafed to your soul. Yet I shall 
not be quite free from anxiety on your account, till I 
am assured that your body admits the refreshment 
of sleep, which it now despises. What shall I say 
to ) ou ? I can write only on one subjeft to have any 
claim on your attention, and that is too tender. 
How shall I so gently touch your wounded soul, as 
not to give it pain ? — I will try. I will take the hint 
from your own letters. You desire Cramer to tell 
you his thoughts on the views of God in such an 
extraordinary trial; and though it never came into 
my head to suppose T eould say any thing that you 
did not far more perfeftly know and feel, yet I think 
that meditations of this sort must now be so natural 
and pleasing to your heart, that I know not how to 
chpose better. Here then are some of my thoughts, 

[ 185 ] 

She was ripe for her birth into the life of an angel. 
Long already had she sought her whole happiness in 
love, and knowledge, the fountains whence Angels 
draw their bliss. The favour of her Heavenly Father, 
who so soon accounted her worthy of immortality, 
without first proving her by many years of suffering, 
has been visibly great towards her. He doubtless 
saw she was an obedient docile child, that would be 
willingly led by kindness and love; for how happy 
was she during the latter years of her life,and almost 
to the hour of her translation ! Her best, her 
dearest, only friend, her guardian angel on earth, (as 
her heart, overflowing with the tenderest love, called 
him even in her last«moments,) was all she wished 
for here. He felt it, and made her happy, and the 
remembrance of her will be his greatest earthly hap- 
piness, as long as he remains behind. In the midst 
of those blissful days, she passed into the infinitely 
superior glory of her Father and Redeemer, and her 
departure is mourned by many excellent friends who 
loved her, and who now support themselves with 
the hope of seeing her again. In the hour of dis- 
solution only did she feel the lot of mortality, but 
praised be the God of mercy ! no longer than while 
|he sua a few times ra^ bis daily course ; and those 

C 186 ] 

s^hort sufferings, in which by her stedfast patience 
she so willingly and nobly gave the last proof of obe- 
dience to her Heavenly Father, must have rendered 
her entrance into the land of bliss the more en- 

" For when the short repose of death is past, 

" Then transport follows ; — ^bliss — eternal bliss!"* 

In like manner the short separation from her friend 
will make his re-union with her so much the more 
delightful. He suffers indeed, — the sad survivor,— 
but is he not rewarded by the consoling thought, that 
in some measure he suffers in her stead ? Would 
she have had strength to bear her lot, had it been 
tiiat of her deserted friend? To sink under the 
stioke of. such a fate, had been in her, who pos- 
sessed every perfeQion of the female heart, almost 
a virtue. — But he is a man. 

Permit me now, my beloved friend, to make sOine 
reflections of another sort. Should you consider 
tome of them as the dreams of an unrestrained ima- 
gination, I can only answer that 1 write them with 
the wish that they may, not unpleasantly, employ 
you for a few minutes. 

* Klopstock. 

[ 187 ] 

We are both agreed, my dear Klopslock, in think- 
ing that the present life is a Gymnasium, where by 
various exercises and conflicts we are prepared for 
higher callings, for greater perfevSlion ; or, more 
suitably to my present ideas, I may compare it to the 
first scenes of a drama, which only propose what is 
afterwards to be unravelled. But to render the sequel 
intelligible, I must first give you a slight idea of some 
singular hypotheses, which indeed I consider only 
in that light, but which have given rise and form to 
my present thoughts. 

I am inclined from various causes to believe that 
in a future state the union of souls will still subsist, 
and will then be of a far more intimate and perfeft 
kind. It must indeed be supposed that very few 
connexions will continue as they were here formedj 
for how seldom do souls formed for each other meet I 

** Now in far distant climes their lot is cast^ 

<' And now long ages roll their course between."* 

According to these ideas, those marriages must be 
considered as the happiest, in which each party, in 
his proper sphere, has an equal capacity for perfe6lion,| 
and which have laid in this life the foundation of 

* Klopstock's Ode to Bodmer. 

[ 188 ] 

their eternal friendship. How great an Influence 
both these causes must have on their earthly hap- 
piness, I leave to yourself to judge ; for you best 
. can. In this point of view, you, my excellent 
friend, must be one of the happiest of men> for was 
she not, as Cramer justly said, ^^ Klopstock in 
feminine beauty ?" And of this I am certain, that 
your connexion is one of those few whose duratiou 
will be eternal. For this cause you were to meet on 
^arth, and possess each other as long as was needful 
to lay the deepest foundation for the tenderest and 
strongest, — for an everlasting friendship. How per- 
fectly have you fulfilled this destiny ! But that 
Qther views might also be fulfilled, she was to be 
translated to the world of spirits before her friend. 
There was to be another soul, sprung from them, oil 
whom the love of both might center, to augmeiit 
their happiness. That this also might have its 
proper perfeftions, the first embryo alone of its ex- 
istence was unfolded, and so soon as the tender bud 
was formed in the maternal bosom, it was transplant- 
ed to a happier climate, and tended by its glorified 
mother and the angels. Without the aptitude to err 
and sin, this infant angel, who perhaps is an image 
of the united virtues of those from whom he sprun^^ 

[ 189 3 

cnlcfsinto the society and instruftion oftheperfeft. 
Free from the mortal covering, he learns to know the 
Godhead with higher powers, and the universe with 
purer and finer organs. The tender mother perhaps 
will one day meet you with this darling of her heart. 
This I confidently hope to hear from you in future, 
if I be not myself a spectator of the heavenly scene. 

All these dreams are, I think at least, agreeable to 
analogy. All the happiness which creatures derive 
from each other, arises from their difference in some 
respefts, and their great similarity, or sympathy, in 
others. If such fiftions please us, without ap- 
pearing true, they at least give an impulse to our 
thoughts. — And is happiness of merely human cre- 
ation so delightful ? How glorious, then, is- that 
which He, whose thoughts and ways are infinitely 
above ours, has prepared for them that love Him ! 
bliss which, according to his own gracious ex- 
pression, has never entered into the heart of man. 

I will not venture, dearest friend, to speak of those 
designs of Providence which regard yourself alone;, 
though thdy may perhaps be the most important of 
all. You will think of them much more nobly, 
you will feel them far more strongly, and the Spirit 
of God himself will teach them to you. I will only 

[ 190 ] 

try to consider, for a few minutes, the secondary ob- 
jeftsf the eifefls to be produced through your means 
on others. 

Since I am convinced that the whole spiritual 
world is conneSed by certain principles, as universal 
as attra£lion in the material world, I must be of opi- 
nion that far less important events, that almost every 
word, perhaps even every thought, has its conse- . 
quences in the world of spirits; and not for a time 
only, but in some sense for eternity. At present 
indeed we can only speak of what is visible. 

Since I consider your Messiah, less as a master* - 
piece of human genius, than as a work for the glory 
of religion and the propagation of piety and virtue 
in more than one age, and more /than one nation ; 
since I am convinced how great a deed he does, who 
makes one pious thought alive and a£live in a human 
soul; since I know how a single passage in a beau- 
tiful book, or in a religious conversation, has often 
had an influence on me for many days together, (and 
I shall, to all eternity, thank those to whom I am in- 
debted for the smallest benefit of this sort;) I do not 
think it an unimportant secondary obje£l of this your 
trial, if it but give you some new ideas; if it awaken 
in your mind some great and strong emotions, before 

[ 191 ] 

unknown to you ; if it throw you into that state of 
happy inspiration, when ypur thoughts burn within 
you, and give an impulse to your expressions, which, 
proceeding from a soul in an uncommon situation, 
will be the more likely to make their way to the 
hearts of those who are in similar circumstances;— 
nay, should it only have more distant effefts than 
these on the perfeftion and extensive utility of your 
works; and such e fleets it must have* 

Among these secondary views, I reckon also the 
effe^which the account of the departure of your now 
immortal Love will produce on all the friends of 
that angel; and how many virtuous friends she had! 
The best should sometimes be reminded that they 
are fallen; that death is a punishment; asthcy should 
also be led to feci the infinite value of the redemption 
by Jesus Christ, which extraSs from this punish- 
ment its bitterness, and renders it a blessing. The 
thought of death, as it arises on such an occasion, is 
astonishingly beneficial. The best have their hours 
of indolence, but time slays not his course. This 
life, the seed time, which ends with the moment of 
death, becomes, by such awakening, more import- 
ant; we feel more forcibly the exhortation, *Met. 
us not be weary in well-doing, for in due time we 

[ 1^2 ] 

-fthall reap/^ Life seems shorter; death nearer. In d, 
word, all usefiil knowledge, which often isbut theory 
in our minds, at such a time becomes pra6lice. 

You, my dearest friend, have the merit, that all 
such views are fulfilled in some measure at your 
expense. I call it a merit, for I know that you will 
reap the most glorious fruit from it. I again repeat 
that I do not venture to touch on the ends which re- 
gard yourself alone, for on that subjcS you best can 
think, and feel, and speak; ^nd yet you will here ^ 
understand onlyasnoall part of them. Beyond the 
grave the full light shall first beam on you. I know 
that in the mean time you will adore the dispen- 
satioifs of God. ^^ Thou wilt thank Him with 
thy song." 

Suifer me to hint at 'one thing more, which to me ' 
brings much comfort. Will not her death be one . 
day less grievous to you ? What is there remaining 
on earth, that in so high a degree possessesyour heart? 
Does Clarissa at any moment appear greater, than 
when she raises herself above the most dreadful in- 
telligence she could have received, with the thought^ 
" The Almighty will have me depend on no one 
but Himself.^' 

[ 193 ] 

We arc called to high purposes. Human friend- 
ships are of little value, if they serve not to kincjle 
in us a desire for immortality; and without doubt 
they are given us for that end, for when does the 
soul more ardently long after it, than on the bosom 
6f a friend whom we wish to possess for ever ? Cer- 
tainly no hours of my life have fled more happily 
than those that I formerly spent in such feelings, with 
two friends, of whom one is now an angel. My 
whole soul glows with rapture, when I recall the 
memory of those hours. But I have been deprived 
of them since I left Saxony. — Friendship must be 
ripened to a perfect sincerity and heart-felt confi- 
dence, before it can burst into such blossoms; 
before it can, by its own native heat^ put forth this 
its most delicious fruit. In such moments we 
forget ourself and our friend, we see only higher 
objefts. We fly hand in hand to Heaven, and with 
undazzled eyes behold the sun. We are never hap- 
pier in friendship, though at the time we do not seem 
to feel it. I hoped soon to have enjoyed such scenes 
again, when half a year ago you quitted us, and I 
unknowingly took my last leave of the Angel who 
now beholds and enjoys what we still hope for. 
God who sees into infinity has thus decreed 1 


[• m ] 

will you not, my best loved friend, soon come to 
us ? Be my guide in the journey which is yet before 
us both. May the Almighty bless the friend of 
my soul: — bless him for ever and ever If 

■f As it is presumed that every person who has read this letter mnst 
wish to become more acquainted with the writer, I will here insert 
the account of his character, which is given by Professor Cramer^ ia 
liis work entitled, "Klopstock, er und iiber ihn." 

" The number of Klopstock's friends was augmented in the year 
1756, by two excellent men, who gained his whole heart. One of 
them was Funke, at that time a very young man, whom Gellert 
recommended to my Father as a tutor for me and my brothers. I 
can never think of him without feeling the tenderest love and gm- 
titude. 1 have to thank him for the greatest part 6C what I learned 
in my youth, and I am indebted to him for much more than know- 
ledge, — for the early formation of my mind to integrity, indepen. 
dence, and equanimity. He always educated me with kindness^ and 
suggested to me every instruction, without forcing it upon me; for 
his method was natural, simple, and easy. To him I would willing!/ 
erect a monument, but it is not requisite : he has erected one t<i 
kimseif, before the public, in several works, not voluminous indeed* 
but of so much the richer intrinsic value; and in the little circle of 
his social exertions, by the universal esteem with which he was 
regarded at Magdeburg, where he was the head ofa school ^hich hit 
diligence soon increased from the number of forty to more than an 
hundred. — Happy Magdeburg, to possess such an instructor within 
its walls ! His various talents and acquirements, added to his 
benevolent, friendly, feeling heart, and quick discernment of cha- 
racter, rendered him acceptable to every one. To a perfect know- 
ledge of the aacient languages, and of classical literatare, he muted 

C iw 1 

Klopstocr to Giesecke. 

Hamburgy Dec. 20. 
Eliza and I are sitting opposite to each other, and 
both writing to you. She is copying my letter to 
Cramer for you. ^How I thanlf you for your last ! 
Much real comfort was contained in it. Also for 
your excellent fragment of a prayer, which gave me 

a taste for the beautiful, the sublime, and the useful, of modem 
times. Except Klopstock and Voss, Germany has perhaps never 
produced an equally profound and excellent linguist. He perfectly 
understood both Franch and English, though he did not speak them; 
aud as he early dedicated himself to theology, that profession in- 
duced him to study Hebrew, Arabic, and other Oriental languages* 
He also made himself acquainted with Danish, whilst he lived with 
my father. He composed some excellent hymns. He understood 
xnusic^ sung at Concerts in Copenhagen, played on the harpsichord^ 
and was well versed in composition. It may easily be imagined 
how much his love of poetry, and knowledge of languages, i;ecom- 
raended him to those great men who have contributed so mu6h to the 
perfection of our own.— In our house, he was not merely a tutor> 
but on various occasions an adviser and assistant to my father, and a 
sincere sharer in all his domestic joys, sorrows, and cares; an indis- 
pensible member of our family; respected by evety one, beloved 
by all good men»and the confidential friend of Klopstock, Basedpw, 
Schlegel, Rothe, and of all who distinguishisd themselves in that 
circle, by knowledge^ bj wit, by talents for writing; oj by the iwcial 

() 2 

[ 19(J ] 

much strength. I was greatly affeftcd by the ideas of 
prayer and acceptance to which it gave rise. 

I was already at Altona when this letter arrived^ 
for I went there the evening after my Meta's death, 
after having seen my dead son, but not my wife : I 
dreaded too much the return of that image. 

I forgot to mention what follows, in my letter 
to Cramer. Should I in future recoiled; any thing 
else, I will write it to you. 

Twice or thrice my Meta looked at me^ without 
speaking a word, and then to Heaven, in such a man- 
ner that it is utterly impossible for me to describe it, 
—I understood her perfectly. I cannot tell you with 
what a mixture of sorrow, of confidence in God, 
and of certainty that she was dying, she looked fro.m 
me to Heaven. Never, never, — though often in 
sorrow and in joy have I looked up with her to 
Heaven, — never did I see her sol The situation of 
a dying person is so singular^ it seems to belong 
neither to this world nor the next. — I should have 
much to repeat, if I could with any degree of accu* 
racy remember what from time to time I whispered 
to her, though in a very few words ; knowing that 
she understood my meaning* Had not her sufferings 
so pierced my soul, I should have been more master 

[197 ] 

of myself^ I should have been able to sl& more on 
design, and have remembered more. — ^What I said 
to her from time to time was chiefly stronger feeling 
of comfort which conquered the feelings of pain. 

Eliza has just now for the first time shewn me 
your letter. I could almost quarrel with her for not 
shewing it to me sooner. Your letters, my Giesecke^ 
have peculiar power to console me j; there is some« 
thing refreshingin them. You must oftm write to me. 

My Meta left a paper with Eli^a^ on which, besides 
some other diredions^ she had written what she 
would have on her cofEn. It consists of two pas- 
sages from the eleventh book of the Messiah. Tbft 
soul of the penitent Thief speaks 2 

** Was this then death ? 
•* O soft yet sudden change !t— What shall I call thee? 
** No more — ^no more thy name be death. — ^And thou, 
** Corruption's dreaded pow'r, how changed to joy! 
** Sleep then companion of my first existence, 
** Seed sown by God, te ripen for tlie harvest!'* 

The soul of the Thief continues speaking, while 
4he etherial body forms around it : 

" O what new life I feel ! 
" Being of beings, how I riieJ Not onet 
** A thousand steps I rise ! And yet I fee),t 

[ 198 ] 

« Advancing still in glory, I shall soar 
*« Above these thousand steps. — ^Near and more near, 
*< (Not in his works alone, these beauteous worlds,) 
" I shall behold th' Etemal, face to face !" 

I too wished to put something on the cofBn, and 
t chose the following lines from the second stanza 
of my Ode. 

*' Though unseen by human eye, 
" My Redeemer's hand is nigh. 
** He has pour'd salvation's light 
" Far within the vale of night.'* 

Basedow to Klopstock. 

January 13.' 
I Received your letter at Copenhagen; otherwise 
I should have answered it sooner. Your other letter 
was sent to me by Cramer. The agreement between 
them affefted me extremely. I should be more sur- 
prised at the state of your mind, if I were less sen- 
sible of the power of religion. Praise be to Bim^ 
who has brought life and immortality to light, that 
we might not sorrow, as the Heathen, which have 
no hope. You will now rejoice that religion haa 
been the principal objeft of your diligent study | 

[ 199 ] 

since by that means it is become more lively and 
more adive in your heart, than it is in that of many 
a well -meaning Christian* 

Since I read your last letter, I have loved yoU 
more than you can perhaps imagine. God will not 
withdraw his comfort from you j he will still preserve 
you in life and health. We shall still pass many 
improving hours together: at least this is my ar- 
dent wish. 


2uedlinburgyJan. 28, 
I Thank you most sincerely for your letter, and 
for imparting to me that which you wrote to Cramer. 
They have very much^gratified and edified mc; and 
not only confirmed my hope that God will support 
you, but convinced me, that He can do, and a£lu- 
ally does, more than we, with all our confidence in 
Him, presynie to expeft. You are right in exhort- 
ing your friends to praise Him with you, I am 
persuaded that He will still further strengthen you. 

Keep your promise of communicating to m« 
whatever you may recoiled of the last days and 
hours of your blessed Meta. Accounts of this sort 

[ 200 ] 

art important to every Christian ; and how much 
more when they are, at the same time^ accounts of 
out friends. I see that Goo can turn all things to 
good for them that are his ; and J must ascribe it to 
this cause^ if my letters have given you any satis- 
faAion,— — I know not what I wrote. 

How shall I rejoice in the spring, if it bring yoa 
to us! Then will I weep with you, and weeping 
praise our God. I have yet much to ask you, and 
much to say of the blessed princess. There too we 
have experienced that Christians have peculiar com* 
fort. Your angel is now with her. I feel assured 
that they know each other. Had your Meta gone 
before her into eternity, she would have rejoiced at 
the thought of seeing her there, as she did in her 
last hours, in the hope of meeting others of my glo- 
rified friends, of whom we had often spoken. 

Dr. Young to Klopstoce. 

Wellwyn^ Feb. 4. 
I Cannot lay down my pen, without telling 
you how much my heart sympathises with yours in 
your very, very severe loss. I am but too well qwu 

[ 901 .] 

lified to do so^ because it is not long since a similar 
affli&ion befel me, I say not long^ although many 
years have since elapsed. But the wound was so 
deep^ that it appears to me still recent^ and it often 
bleeds^ as if I had but yesterday received it. May 
the Almighty God support you, in- his great 
mercy, with many^ many other blessings. 

Fatis contrarta fata reptndtns* 


March 13. 
Yo u have sent me a sheet of Letters from the 
Dead to the Living, without telling me by whom they 
are written j but I think I can guess. It is not you; 
it is your wife. I beg you to continue them, for I 
think them rery interesting. I particularly like this 
sort of letters, when they are so well written as these 

From thb same to Klopstock. 

March 20. 
How much am I obliged to you for having 
complied with my wishes, by sending me the con-^ 

C 202 ] 

linuation of the Letters from the Dead. I can but 
faintly tdl you how much I feel in reading them. 
To how many reflexions have they led me ! I hope 
there are many more of them, but there will still b& 
too few for me. 

Extract of a Lktter from Dr. YouNa 

TO Klopstock.* 

I Thank you for the melancholy, yet pleasing 
sight of your dear wife's monument. I read in it 
the Christian charafter of her husband. Its last 
word was the common salutation of the primitive 
Christians, when they met each other, — Resurrexit. 
Should not our hearts burn within us at the blessed 
sound ? That word carries in it all our hope and 
joy. We shall soon bury all our other hope and 
joy, never to rise again. And shall beings that hav^ 
no end, prize any thing that has ? Christ is in- 
deed the truth, and the world a lie. Infidels believe 
it, and are undone. 

•Thii letter was written after the publication of Mr, 
Klopstock's book, but the editor believes that the msertiqa 
of it will require no apology. 

[ 203 ] 

1 love your faith and virtue, I admire your genius, 
I deplore your loss, I pity your distress, I pray for 
your prosperity, and shall be ever proud of your 
commands \ being, most cordially. 

My dear Sir, 
Your most obedient and most humble servant, 


Mr. Klopstock, in continuation. 

Thus far the letters of my friends. 

She is not yet buried in the place where I hope 
to rest beside her. I intend to have our grave made 
in some village church-yard by the Elbe. I will 
choose a beautiful country, for the sake of those 
who may visit it. With the same view, and not 
froni the vanity of adorning a very simple tomb, I 
have recjuested her two sisters each to plant a tree 

I to* 1 

by the side of her grave^ and her deareit friend td 
sow flowers upon it 

• On the grave-stone shall be two wheat sheaves^ 
negligently laid one on the others Under them^ 

** Seed sown by God> to ripen for the harvest.'* 
(In the middle of the grave-stone these words) 


There^ where death is not^ awaits 
Her friend, her beloved> her husband. 
Whom she so loves, by whom she is so beloved! 
But &om hence, from this grave. 

Thou, my Klopstock, and I, and our Sony 

From hence will we rise together. 

Worship Him who also died, was buried, and arose! 

She was bom March 16, 1728. 

Married June 10, 1754, and died Nov. 28, 1758, 

Her Son sleeps in her arms. 

HanAurgt April 10, 17591 

. \ ■■ i 

[ 205 3 

Letters xvritten by Klopstock to his 
departed' Meta. 

T HAVE hitherto restrained my wish of writing 
something which might perhaps be made known 
to thee before my death; because I feared that my 
feelings would take too strong hold on me. But 
now that I have just read over my last letters to thee, 
I can no longer withstand that wish. — Where shall 
I begin, my now quite heavenly friend ! Can it be, 
that some small part of the present unspeakable hap- 
piness consists in thinking of me? Ah ! wretched 
I was left behind. — I am a sinner, and still on this 
side of the grave. Yet did the Being of beings perm it 
me to foresee my fate. Of this I am convinced, that 
it makes a part of thy present happiness to remember, 
what never can be fprgotten by me, the grace that I 
received at the time when I was forced to take leave 
of thee. Thou must have seen in my face the joy 
which God gave me. Dost thou know how I feb. 


my Meta? Yes, I will still call thee by that sweet 
name. My soul was highly exalted, I no more saw 
death in thy face 5 1 felt not the clammy coldness of 
thy hand. — I cannot fully describe my situation; 
but this I know, that to a martyr over whom I had 
seen Heaven open, I should have cried with no other 
feelings, ^^ Thanksgiving, and worship, and praise 
be to the All-wise and ihe All -merciful !" May this 
be still my ruling thought, and be that which thou 
shall first hear of me; if, indeed thou canst hear of 
me before my death. The angels concern them- 
selves with many things relating to us mortals, and 
perhaps with more than we believe. Or perhaps 
the first of our friends who -goes to Heaven will tell 
thee what I now write. In this hope I will repeat, ■ 
Thanksgiving and worship, and praise be to the All- 
wise and the All-merciful ! Yes, with this heavenly 
salutation shall our blessed friend accost thee, in my 
name, O thou perfeiled, and highly beloved f 


I Was forced to break off; but I will now tell thee 
something, I cannot repeat it all, of what befel me 
after I left thee. I bad before prayed with mi;ch 

t 207 3 

uneasiness and anguish. I could now pray with 
quite different feelings. I intreated perfeft sub- 
mission; my soul hung on God; I was refreshed, 
I was comforted, and prepared for the stroke that 
was already so near,^ — ^nearer than I thought. I be- 
lieved that thou wouldst yet live some hours, (this 
was my cnly hope,) and that according to thy wish, 
expressed not long before I left thee, I might once 
more be permitted to pray with thee. But how often 
are our thoughts, not as God's thoughts. * Thou 
wert departed ! They told me so, but in such a 
manner that for a moment I believed thee delivered 
of our child, and heard in the next that thou wast 
with God ! — ^This stroke, which overcame tb«( 
others, only shook me. How was this, thou beloved 
of my soul ? My prayer was heard. I strove to be 
pcrfeftly resigned; and perhaps thou hadst then for 
the first time prayed for me in the other world. — 
I wept not, nor yet was I in that state of extreme 
emotion in which one cannot weep. I said soon 
after thy death, ** She is not far from me." And 
thou wast not far from me ; we were both in the 
hand of the Omnipresent.— After some time, I 
wished to see that which, just before, I bad called 
my Meta. They prevented me, and a second still- 

[ 208 ] 

ness came into my soul, as I said to oneof our friends^ 
*^ Then I will forbear. She will arise again !'* 

The second night came the blessing of thy death^ 
(till then I had considered it only as a trial,) the 
blessing of such a death in itsfull power came on 
me. I passed above an hour in silent rapture. Only 
once in my life did I ever feel any thing similar, 
when, in my youth, I thought myself dying. But 
the poments of my expefted departure then were 
somewhat different* My soul was raised with grati* 
tude and joy, but that sweet stillness was not in it* 
Thou knowest how alive my feelings were, and how 
words flowed to me like a torrent. But now the 
highest degree of peace with which I am acquainted 
was in my soul. This state began with my recoU 
letting that thy Accomplisher and my Advocate 
said, ^^ He who loveth father or mother more than 
me, is not ,worthy of me.** It is , impossible to 
describe all the blessings of this hour. I was never 
before with such certainty convinced of my salva- 
tion. I thank thee, with my whole soul, my hea- 
venly friend ! for I have a strong idea that thy prayers 
obtained for me this great blessing. So, perhaps, 
at our parting, — Ah! the time will come when we 
shall part i\o more! — ^Now, my Meta, do I weep. 

C 209 ] 

but thanks be to Him who then enabled me to 
rejoice. — At our parting perhaps I did not beg in 
vain^ that thou wouldst be my guardian angel ^ or 
rather^ this our last wish was heard of God ! 


How much should I have to write, if T allowed 
myself to be at all circumstantial in the description of 
what I now feel for thee; now that I am alone, that 
I live without thee ! How much should I have to 
tell thee ! But I must restrain myself. 

I should oftener give way, my Meta, to the me- 
lancholy that oppresses me, I should think myself 
justified in giving way to it, if I had not experienced 
so much grace, at the lime when the stroke of thy 
death fell on me; if I did not remember it with joy 
and gratitude. I am obliged to call it to mind to 
restrain the melancholy which came on even now as 
I recolleded that there are but a few days to thy 
birth-day, which thou didst not outlive. How shall 
I pass it without her ? But I will ask this question 
no more. Was I not wonderfully supported on the 
day of thy death ? — ^A little while ago, as I was 
aloncj at the approach of night, J imagined so 


[ 210 ] , 

Strongly, I could almost say with such a degree of 
certainty, that thou wert before me, that I more than 
once spoke to thee. Oh ! if thou wert indeeiwith 
me, then I need say nothing more; Ye inhabitants 
of Heaven! are ye sometimes around us ? Oh, if this 
is allowed, my Meta has often already been with me ! 
And^why should ye not be permiited sometimes to visit 
us ? Are ye not like the Angels ; and are not the 
Angels sent down to minister to them who shall be 
heirs of salvation?* But if thou hast not been allowed 
to visit me, thou wilt soon> perhaps, hear something 
of me. I believe that the number is not sma!l of 

* ** All tlie ideas that man can form of the ways of Pro- 
vidence, and of the employments of Angels and Spirits, must 
ever fall short of the reality; but still it is right to think of 
them, and to raise his ideas as high as he can. He glorifies 
the inhabitant of Heaven, and at the same time gives a proof 
of human greatness, when he* raises the idea of perfeffion to 
the highest degree that we are capable of conceiving. What 
can have a moue exalting influence on the earthly life, than 
in these first days of our existence, to make ourselves con^ 
versant with the lives of the Blessed, with the happy Spirits 
whose society we shall hereafter enjoy, and with the future 
glories of the virtuous. By these ideas the mind is prepared 
and formed to step forth with more confidence on the great 
theatre of the world. We should accustom Qur$|elyes to cop? 

[ 211 ] 

those who are my fiiends without my knowing them- 
and whom I should love, if I did know them. Perhaps 
it may not be long before one of these will die, and 
then, my Meta, then wilKhe hasten to thee with my 
heavenly salutation, (may I not call it so?) and with 
an account of the mercy which I have experienced. 
How narrow are my thoughts! As if thou couldst 
not already know by other means what has befallen 
me since thy death; as if thou didst not much more 
accurately know the intentions and the consequences 

of it, — May I fulfil the intentions, which God, in 
this great trial, and in the grace wherewith He sup- 
ported me, had in view ! I beseech, I implore thecj 
merciful JehovahL let me not quite fall short of 
them ! O what it is to wander still in the wilderness, 
and never be at home ! How dangerous is the 
temptation to sin ! 

If by means with which I am unacquainted ihou 
dost know something of me, yet there is probably 
much which is not important enough to be told thee. I 
will therefore mention yet a little more of what I wish 

aider the Spirits of Heaven as always around us; obsenlngall 
our steps, and witnessing our most secret a(5lIons. Whoever 
is become familiar with these ideas, will find the most solitary 
place peopled with the best society." — KlopstecL 

P 2 

[ «I2 ] 

thee to hear. Certainly not with such sorrow as can 
in any degree diminish thy present felicity, yet with 
some soft emotion for my fate, thou feelest now 
what those letters must be to me, those letters in 
which thou didst suppose me where thou art now 
and thyself yet here. '^ From this worldyfor ever^*** 

my Meta. Yes, it is short, very short, xht/or ever 

of this world. How soon wast thou taken from rael 
How suddenly was thy time, with all its happiness^ 
gone for me ! But never, never will I complain ! 
Not eveh that thc^br ever of this world often ap- 
pears to me far from short. How can I complain ? 
How can I forget the comfort, the gracious rrfresh- 
ment which restored my soul, when my path was the 
roughest, when the wilderness of my pilgrimage 
most resembled that shadowy vale which thou didst 
traverse ? Yes, Meta, no heart but such as thine^ 
could, with a tenderness beyond comparison, have 
wished to outlive thy Beloved ! Full well I know 
how often and how earnestly thou hast wished this 
when thou wert with me, and what I felt at the time! 
If a human being could merit any thing from GoD« 
I would say that by this pure tenderness thou hast 
merited not to be the deserted one^ to have thy 

• See page 133. 

[ 213 ] 

course so soon accomplished ! It is exalted virtue 
to bear the cross as God wills ; but how very un- 
equal should I have been to bear it ! Thou remem- 
berest how the mighty arm that has led me, had 
already begun to fapport me, when we talked of thy 
death, and I always broke ofFihe subjefl: by saying, 
*^ As our God will !" Thou knowest how cheerful 
we then were. It was not then far off, that hour of 
my torture, and I was to be prepared for it 1 Thou 
too wouldst not have been too much cast down. To 
thee too would have been given strength, more than 
thou hadst dared to hope. And thankful, (for with 
gratitude didst thou always receive whatever came 
from the hand of God,) thankful wouldst thou have 
been, and have repressed the grief of thy heart. Ah> 
Meta, dost thou not still love me ? love me so 
that thy heart, though in Heaven, longs for me ? 
How sweet, how inexpressibly sweet is this thought! 
Yes, thou art for ever mine, thou wert made for nie, 
my now quite heavenly love! O thai it would come, 
the moment of our meeting, that moment full of joy 
beyond expression; O that it would come! — But, 
no, — I must not give way to this idea. If I have 
ever clearly seen how confined we are, even with 
regard-to x)ur favourite pursuits, I mean the pursuit 

[ 214 ] 

of our individual happiness; if! have ever seen thij 
strongly, it was when, soon after thy death, I some- 
times wished that thou mightest in some way make 
thyself known to me. What wish could be more 
natural ? And what truer happiness could I have 
wished for myself in this world ? Yet what wish 
can be formed with less hope ? — ^And why is it not 
fulfilled? Because such a discovery is incompatible^ 
with the general happiness of the whole. Thou 
seest now the whole system of this universal happi- 
ness. Would it be disturbed by thy making thyself 
known to me, in my last moments ? O if thou 
mayest, without a doubt thou wilt ! Then wilt thou 

hover, not invisibly, around me; then What 

heaven is in the thought ! then wilt thou appear 

to my closing eyes ! But do I not wish too much ? 
Yes, far too much if I spoke of reward; but I speak 
of grace which God through thee might grant me ! 


Th k idea of thee, when thou wcrt near death, 
often ajjpcars to me now much more affeiSling than 
it was the moment I saw thee; at that moment of 
my great strengthening. I have need of all that is 

[ 21.5 1 

sweet and enchanting in the thought of the fesui- 
reSion, and of the Almighty Awakener, to free 
myself from this image. Let him who knows not 
yet the bliss of the Resurreftion, who has not 
tasted its comforts, let him see a friend ora wifedie^ 
and he will learn it. Though by this thought I cafi 
free myself from this impression, yet I am now glad 
that I did not sec thee dead] however difficult it was 
to me at the time to forbear. Thou who couldst 
not endure a single day's absence from me, (Oh, well 
I know how ill thou couldst endure it !) thou didst 
contentedly see me leave ihee, and didst not send foi* 
me to return, though I had promised to pray with 
thee again. What was this change in thee ? Thou 
wast quite detached from this world. It was the 
beginning of eternal life 1 Though I know that 
thou hast never ceased to love me, yet this thought 
would be painful to me, had it not been for the sake 
of the great Objeit of our worship, that thou didst 
tear thyself even from me. But when thou hadst 
obtained the prize — then, (this I hope to God who 
gave thee to me) then didst thou think on me again^ 
then didst thou wish, with a peaceful wish of heaven, 
that I might soon come to thee ! The will of God 
be done, as in heaven so also on the earth I 

[ 216 ] 


I Often think of ihy present felicity, but how im- 
perfeftly ! As we,so short a time since, thought to- 
gether of the happiness of the other world. Many a 
time do I figure thee to myself with the blessed one 
who was thy child; thou happy mother, of whose 
bliss I have scarcely a distant idea; often do I re- 
present thee to myself, soaring amidst those worlds, 
a few of which illuminateour nights, and where thou 
art continually becoming acquainted with new and 
countless multitudes of their inhabitants. Then 
how expanded is my soul, and how detached from 
earth! Thou knowest how I used to be enraptured 
with the thought of those multitudes of happy beings! 
How much more now that thou art amongst them ! 
Here I can in some degree follow thee, but when I 
would trace thee where thou beholdest Him who has 
redeemed us. Him whom even on earth thou didst 
so much love, — I lose myself, and my ideas almost 

totally fail ! 


The seer of the Apocalypse saw, on Mount Sion, 
high in heaven, a Lamb, standing covered with 
wounds of glory, and with precious blood of sal- 

[ 217 3 

yation! There stood around him an hundred and 
forty-four thousand redeemed; conspicuous on their 
foreheads was inscribed the name of the EverJasting 
Father. As the sea, as the voice of thunder, the 
harps resounded in the hands of the redeemed. Of 
the Son they sung, of the Son ! For life eternal de- 
scended on their souls from the glorious wounds of 
the Lamb ! 

I will take leave of thee no more. We are botk 
in the hand of Him who is every where ! 

[ 219 ] 


A LL who have read Klopstock*s Odes must be 
sensible of the difficulty, perhaps I might say 
the impossibility, of giving the English reader a just 
idea of them. Those which are now offered to the 
public, are selefted from many which Miss S — 
translated, because, from their subjeSs, they are con- 
ne<9:ed with the preceding letters. For the simple 
mode of translation which is here adopted, I find 
the following apology in an unfinished preface by 
Miss S — : 

*' I venture to offer a few remarks, to obviate • 
some objeSions,' which I know will be made, to the 
translations of those Odes of Klopstock which ap- 
pear in this work. It will be said they are rough. 
I grant it; but letitbe remembered that my aim has 
not been to make finished English Odes, but to give 
to the English reader, as far as lay in my power, an 
idea of Klopstock's Odes. Klopstock himself ig 

[ 2-0 ] 

rough;* not because he was ignorant of the powers 
of harmopy^ for he studied that, and brought the 
German language to a pitch of excellence it had 
never before attained; but he is rough, because his 
subjects in general are such as do not admit of po- 
lished versification. They are sublime, wild, often 
unconnefted except by some thin thread ofthe Poet's 
fancy, which every reader will not catch. The merit 
ofthe Odes consists in ihe depth of thought, the con- 
ciseness of expres.-ion, the loftiness of the ideas ; 
their chara£ler throughout is energy and strength. 
And shall these magnificent poems be tortured into 
our dull tune of ten syllables, because the English 
ear is so accustomed to it that it is become a sort of 
national lullaby ? Shall a noble thought be dragged 
out hito weakness, to fill up a drawling line ? Shall 
the expression be totally lost to make a jingle at the 
end ? Klopstock had an aversion to rhyme" 

♦ As I am informed that the truth of this assertion may 
justly be disputed, I beg leave to observe that Miss S — was 
self-taught, and little accustomed to hear the German Ian- 
guage either read or spoken, though she understood it re- 
markably well. Her enthusiastic admiration of Klopstock 
was not diminished by her supposing him occasionally defi- 
cient in what she always considered as by no nieans essen- 
tial in the composition of sublime and animated poetry. 

[ 2«l ] 

To this unfinished sketch I will only add my per- 
suasion, on the authority of good judges, that the 
few poems which are printed in this volume will be 
found to convey the sense of the author which an 
uncommon degree of accuracy, and with much of 
the strength of the original. 


A Dread! idea, Ebert ! from the cheerful board 

Drives me to deepest gloom ; 
In vain thou bidst me o'er the care-dispellijjg glass 

To cherish cheerful thoughts; 
I must away and weep. — Perhaps these soothing teara 

May wash away my woe. 

soothing tears ! by nature widely were ye giv'n 

To attend on human grief. 
Were it not so,— could man not weep his misery. 
How would he bear it then? 

1 must away, and weep, — ^my agonizing thought 

Yet powerful strives within me. 
Ebert! suppose them now all gone, — ^the sacred grave 

Overwhelming all our friends, 
And we two lonely ones, — ^we only left of all. 

Art thou not speechless, Ebert? 

[ 222 ] 

Looks not thine eye mournful around, then fixes Tiewless ? 

So my sight died away ; 
So I too trembled, when tliis terrific thought 

In thunder struck me first. 
As when a traveller hastening to his home, his wife, 

His manly hopeful son, 
His blooming daughter; weeps ev'n now for their embrace^—- 

Him thunder overtakes, 
Striking destroys, then turns his form to dust. 

And up in triumph seeks _ 

Again the lofty clouds of Heaven, — so struck the thought 

My agitated mind : 
My eye was lost in darkness, and my trembling knees 

Unnerv'd and pow'rless sunk. 
In silent night the vision of the dead pass'd by, — 

I saw our friends all pass;— 
And oh! in silent night I saw the open graves, 

I saw th' immortal host ! 
When tender Giesecke's eye shall smile on me no more, — 

When far from Radichen 
Our upright Cramer pines, — when Gartner, Rab£N£r'$ 

No more Socratic speaks,—. tongue 

In the harmonious life of noble-minded Gellert 

When ev'ry string is hush*d, — 
Beyond the grave when open-hearted Rothe 

Seeks the companions of his joy, — 
When lively Sciilegel from a longer exile 

To no friend writes again, — 

I fi2S ] 

When in my dearest Schmidt's embrace my eye no more 

Weeps tears of tenderness, — 
When with oar fathers Hagedorn Is laid to rest ; • 

Ebert ! what are we then ? 
We, dedicate to pain, whom here a mournful fate 

Has left behind them all ! 

Should one of us tiien die — (my thought leads on 

From shade to deepest gloom) — 
^ Should one of us then die, and one alone remain, 

And should that one be me ;•— 
Should she too then have lov'd me, she who is to love, 

Should she too rest in dust. 
And I remain the only one — remain alone on eaith, — 

Wilt thou, immortal mind. 
Thou soul for friendship form'd, behold those empty days, 

And yet retain thy feeling? 
Or wilt thou stupified suppose them nights, and sleep, 

And rest, devoid of thought? 
But shouldst thou then awake to feel thy misery. 

Eternal suffering mind ! 
Call when thou wak'st my lost friend's image from the grave; 

Restore me only that. 
Ye graves, where sleep my friends, abodes of those I love, 

Why lie ye scattered wide? 

^h I why not side by side plac'd in a blooming vale, 

Or gathered in a grove? 
lead the dying son of other days; — I'll go 

With tottering steps, and plant 

[ 224 ] 

On crery grave a cypresa ; — the yet shadcless trees 

For after ages tend; 
At night upon the topmast boughs the heavenly forms 

Of my immortals see^ 
And trembling raise my head to Heay'O} and weep, and di^ 

O bury then the dead 
Beside the grave by which he died. Corruption \ take> 

Then take my tears and me. 
Cease» sable thought I O cease to thunder in my 80ul> 

Deep as eternity, 
As judgment fearful, cease. The o'er-whelm'd soul 

No more can grasp the thought. 


WHEN I am dead, when all those bones are dust. 

When thou, my eye, hast, closing, ceas'd to weep; 

No more, to where the unknown future dwells. 

In humble expedtation to look up ; 

When my poetic fame, of youthful tears 

The fruit, and of my love to Thee, Messiah, 

Is also pass'd away, or but by few 

Is in this lower world remember'd still; 

When thoii, my Fanny, too, hast long been dead. 

And when thy mild eye's cheerful, placid smile. 

And its expressive look, is also quench'd ; 

[ 93i ] 

When, unobserv'd of the ignoble crowd, 
The virtuous deeds 'of all thy life are done, 
More worthy fame than is the Poet's song, 
And ah! when one more fortunate than I 
Thou shalt have lov'd, (O leave me yet ray pride,) 
More fortunate, but not more virtuous ; 
Then will thejp be a day when I shall rise. 
Then will there be a day when thou wilt rise ; 
Then shall no fate again divide the souls 
Which, Nature, thou didst for each other doom. 
, Then, with the scale in his uplifted hand, 
When God shall fortune against virtue weigh. 
What's now discordant in the course of things 
Shall then in endless harmony unite. 
Then, as thou standest new-awak'd, will I 
Hasten to thee nor wait until a Seraph 
Shall take my hand, and lead to thee, immortal : 
Then shall thy Brother, tenderly by me 
Belov'd, haste with me. Then, with tears of rapture, 
Will I beside thee stand, and call thee Fanny, 
And press thee to my heart. O then, eternity, 
Thou'rt all our own ! Ye joys, above the pow'r 
Of song, O come, ye joys unspeakable! 
Unspeakable as now my woe ! Till then 
Run on my life ! The hour will surely come, 
That calls us to the silent, cypress shade. 
Ye intervening hours, clouded and dark, 
Be dedicate alone to mourning love ! 


[ 2fi6 ] 


ISee Fragments, p. 120.] 

HE who dirciSs our fate, disperses oft 

In empty air the purest wish we breathe 

After some golden image of delight. 

And sets a labyrinth where man would walk. 

Deep in the distance of eternity 

God sees ; — a scene, to us invisible. 

Alas ! they find not one the other, they 

Who for each other and for love were lAade; 

Now in far distant climes their Jot is cast. 

And now long ages roll their course between. 

Ne'er did my eye behold thee, Addison, 

Ne'er did my ear learn wisdom from thy lips. 

Nor ever yet did Singer* smile on rae, 

She who unites the living and the dead. 

Thee too I never shall behold, thou who 

In after times, when I have long been dead, 

Shalt rise most like me, made for my own heart. 

And thine will pant for me. I shall not see 

How thou employ'st thy little span of life. 

Unless thy Guardian Angel I become. 

Thus did His sovereign power ordaip, who view8 

♦ Mrs. Rowe, 

[ 227 ] 

The fathomless abyss of infinite. 

Yet oft, in mercy, doth He bring to pass 

What the poor trembling heart scarce dar*d to hope, 

As fi-om a dream awak'd, we see our bliss, 

Enraptur'd see our fondest wish fulfilled. 

Such was my joy when Bodmer fiirst I met. 


LONG drown'd in deepest woe, I learnt the pow'r 
Of love; that love which, fled from earth. Still deigns 
To visit humble virtue's calm retreat. 
Such as the first of lovers felt, when first, 
All innocence, he view'd the glassy stream; 
He saw the flowers which grac'd th' o'erhanging bank; 
With inexperienc*d eye he saw, and smil'd! 
Thus love appeared to me. Why then, O Pain, 
Didst thou seek out thy deepest wounding shah. 
With keenest anguish barb'd, to plunge me deep. 
Deep in a night of woe! Years are gooe by, 

Q 2 

[ 288 ] 

Long years of pain, since that fell stroke was struck. 

At length, beyond my hope, the night retires ; 

'Tis past, — and all my long-lost joys awake; 

Smiling they wake, my long forgotten joys. 

Are ye indeed returned, with that sweet peace 

Which blest my soul, when yet my life was happy? 

O how I wonder at my alter'd fate I 

Again I feel myself restored to joy. 

A gain with rapture beats my grateful heart. 

Can it be pride, or apathy, which works 

This happy change, and heals my wounded soul? 

No — these my soul disdains. What is it then ? 

Virtue, gentle Virtue, say, dost thou 
Thy humble votary richly thus reward? 
But is it thou alone ? or dare I hope 
That from thy guiding hand I shall receire 
The lovely maid who softly smiles on me? 
Fair she appeared when first in sleep beheld. 
But fairer when before my waking eyes 

She glides along. I strive to speak — * O stay. 

Why dost thou haste away? 'Tisthee I love. 

Ah! well thou know'st this heart. Too well thou know*6t 

How tcndorly It lov'J. Is there a heart 

Whicii loves like mine? Yes, Cidli, thine alone. 

I taught thee first to love ; in seeking thee 

1 learnt what true love was. It rais'd my heart 
From cr.rtb to heav'n; and nuw thro' Eden's groves 
With thee it leads me on to endless joy !" 

[ 229 1 


I FOUND her 8lcq)ing in the shade, 
I bound her with a band of Roses ; 
She feh it not, but slumber'd sdll. 

I gazed on her; — my life then hung 
On her life, with that look, for ever ; 
I felt it deeply but I could not speak. 

I whisper'd softly, but she did not hear; 
I gently shook the Band of Roses; 
Then from her slumber she awoke. 

She gazed on me; — her life then huag 
On my life, with that look, for ever j 
And round us was £lysium« 

[ 230 ] 


SHE sleeps! O gentle Sleep, shed from thy wings 
Balsamic life o'er all her tender frame ! 
From Eden's pure and peaceful fount 
Draw forth some drops of liquid crystal, 

And sprinkling them where from her lovely check 
The rose is fled, restore the glowing tints ; 
And thou, sweet Peace of Virtue and of Love, 
Thou fairest of the graces, with thy wing, 

O shade my Cidli! See, she sleeps; how still! 
Be silent thou my softest string: thy laurel wreath 
Shall fade, if from her slumber thou awake. 
With gentlest whisper wake, my sleeping love! 


SLEEP from my eyes is fled, with all its train 
Of airy dreams, for poets only made. 
The hill, the vale is still ; o'erspread with dew. 
That silent creeps within the slumbering flowers. 
Friend, all things sleep! My best, my kindest friend. 

[ 231 3 

In this belov'd, this solemn stillness, Schmidt, 
With strong emotion do I think on thee, 
On thee, though distant far. O that these arms. 
Thou much belov'd, could press thee to my heart ! 
Thy mournful friend weeps for thy lost embrace. 
Of whieh our cruel fate deprives me still. 
Behold, how noble souls -like brothers love ; 
No— brothers love not half so tenderly. 
Yet dost thou, fate, divide those noble souls. 
And pierce with deepest woe the bleeding heart! 
Thus am I left to breathe my secret sighs 
Far from the faithful friend, whose gentle look 
Shall comfort me no more ! Thus do I breathe 
My secret sighs, as awful midnight still, 
And what I sigh can reach no human ear. 

Now torturing thought restrains the bursting tear. 
What agonizing image tears my soul! 
Again the form of my lost wife I see. 
She lies before me, and she dies again ; 
Again she smiles on me, again she dies. 
Her eyes now close, and comfort me no more; 
No more her mouth divine shall whisper peace. 
That mouth for ever full of God and heaven. 
No more she gently chides the silent tear 
That fearful shrunk from her observing eye. 
She saw the tear, was griev'd, and firmly cry'd, 
** Thou lov'st me, O my friend, and dost thou weep?" 
I check'd tlie tear, in spite of inward grief. 

[ 232 ] 

Calm and resigned, I sigh'd not to be heard* 
O who shall now forbid my tears to flow ? 
Her voice inspires with fortitude no more! 

Still will I strive to check my ceaseless woe> 
That if she now my guardian angel be, 
And view me still, she may not love me less^ 
Because I have not strength of mind like hers. 
Now that amongst immortals thou dost dwell. 
If still weak nwrtals may deserve thy care, 
O if thou love me still, by heavenly rules 
Condemn me not; — I am a man, and mourn. 
Support me, though unseen : thy cheering eye 
Can arm my soul with more than human strength; 
Then will I learn to check my woe, till thou 
In death shalt teach me to be firm like thee ! 

O never, never can I cease to mourn 
Tl)is best of friends ! Mourn with me distant times,^ 
More virtuous times perhaps than ours. I see 
Around her grave, I see ye weeping stand. 
And strew the turf with flow'rs, and midst your tears 
Say to your sighing daughters, " Be like her 1*' 
O friend of virtue, in thy arms I wish 
To shed these tears, for thou wouldst weep with mc I 

[ 233 3 


Br Miss S — 

ACH, sie finden sich nicht, die fur einander doch, 

Und zur liebe geschaffen sind; 
Jetzo trennet die nacht femerer Himmel sie 

Jetzo lange jahrhunderte.* Khpsicck, 

THUS, blessed Spirit, ran thy deep complaint; 

In all things else, to Heaven's high will resigned, 

This oilly seem'd too hard : — and hard indeed 

It is, that time and space should intervene 

To part those souls, by their Creator's hand 

Attun'd to concord ; — seeming thus ordain'd 

To mingle sounds in heavenly harmony. 

Yet sunder'd now so far, no breeze can waft 

The dying tones of one, to vibrate on 

The other's sympathetic chords. — ^Nor is 

This all. — ^Doom'd each to mix with neighbour notes. 

Notes, not perhaps ill-sounding, yet with them 

Jarring in discord insupportable. 

This — this indeed is hard. It tempts suspicion 

• Alas! they find not one the other,— they 
Who for each other and for love were made; 
Now in far distant dimes their lot is cast. 
And now long ages roU their course between. 

Ode to Bodmrr, fiage 2S6, 


C 234 ] 

Of Providence eternal, tempts to think 
The great machine of nature is derang'd. 

Vain, babbling Reason, peace ! — ^Now Klopstock koows^ 
He knows, and bids thee sing, — this too is trial ! 
For trial were we sent to dwell on earth, 
And what severer could be found than this ? 
What other is there, to a virtuous mind 
That sees the nothingness of present life. 
The glory of the future, — and with love 

Unmix'd, looks up to Him, the only good? 

Sickness or health, riches or poverty. 

To such a mind are nothing; easy weights, 

If friendship help to bear them; — ^but to live 

With those whose ev'ry word, and gesture, thrill 

Discordant through our frame; this is severe 

Unceasing trial. — But the more severe 

Th' appointed trial, the louder does it call 

Our courage up, and bid us instant arm 

With Heav'n-ward patience and submission meek ; 

Trusting, when time and space shall be no more. 

To meet those souls from which they now divide us* 

If now possessing them, too happy here. 

This Earth were Heav'n, and nothing left to wish. 

In mercy, God forbids us here to taste 

A long continuance of such happiness. 

There's yet another cause, celestial Klopstoci:, 
Why souls for friendship form'd can seldom meet.^ 
They must be cast in Nature's finest mould 

[ S35 ] 

Of the sublimer essence of creation ; 

And such are scarce; — at intervals sent down, 

As were of old the Prophets, to recall 

The baser herd to duty's sacred path, — 

To dress old truths in an attractive garb, — 

To shew men, " virtue in herself how lovely," 

To explore the depths of science, — to unveil 

The mysteries of nature, — and beyond 

The narrow sphere of human ken, to make 

Discoveries, which might damp the reasoning pride 

Of dabblers in philosophy, and prove 

That things they cannot understand, exist ; — 

That other men have higher faculties. 

And thence might lead them to imagine, beings 

Yet higher in the scale of intelleft: 

Truths which no human mind could ever grasp. 

These, to my weak perceptions, seem some ends 
By Providence propos'd in sending down, 
At times to earth, these high intelligences. 
And those were sure not answer'd, if they came 
At once, or in a cluster on the stage. 
Then other parts of space and time would want 
Their share of lustre; — and to fill the void 
If more of first-rate genius were produced. 
This world's affairs would run into confusion, 
Too near, too little to employ such minds. 
And thus, immortal Klopstock, souls like thine 
Of friendship worthy, because capable, 

C 236 1 

Can scarce expeft to meet their like on earth ; 
Since for the general good they come, and not 
Their private happiness ; — better attain'd 
By staying in their native country, Heav'n, 
And since this earth would be to them a Heav'n> 
If with their equals only they conver^'d. 

'Tis true thou wast, a little while, most blest ; 
But *twas to th' end that thy example, when 
Divine command recalled the treasure lent, 
Might prove an useful lesson to the world ; 
Teaching, more feelingly than precept could, 
Loving as thou didst, to resign like thee ! 


Just published, price 6s. 


lately deceased. With some Account of her Life and Writings, 
by the Author of " Sermons on the Dodlrines and Duties of 

Richard CruttwcU, Printer, Stamp-Office, St. JamcsVStrcct, Bath. 




n « ^ » « » » 

v> i.',% \^A\ v\ \ c/u- IttOfc 









Author of " Sermons on the Doctrines and jDuttes 

of Christianity, 









' I 


• • r 

'TpHE fovour with which memoirs imd Iietteii 
"^ are generally received by the public, has 
entoaraged the produftion of a great i&scoj bia^ 
gi-aphical works, written on verjr diffi^rent pr&|i 
ciples, and which mast be perused with verf 
different feelings. The delight with which every 
friend of science tmd virtue reads the life of Sir 
William Jones, of Dr. Beattie, of Mr. Cowper, 
br of Mrs. Carter, can famish no excuse for 
publications, in which some of the most vidon^ 
charaAers that disgrace the present times, are 
dragged into notice, to disgust or to corriipb 
succeeding generations. For such aa insuh oil 

[ vi : 

the. principles and the taste of the reader no 
apology can be offered; but when the charader 
that is brought before the puWic is really de- 

, serving of esteem, the, feeling heart will view 
with indulgence the partial fondness of sur- 
viving friendship, which endeavours to save 
from oblivion the 6bje£t of its affedion, and to 
strew a few flowers on the humble tomb of 
^parted virtue* 

The following pages will not be found to 
contain a: single sentence which can give pain 
to any human being; and though nothing in 
ihis.c^edion was written with a view to pob* 
llcation, yet, as the delicacy which always 
shrunk from observation cannot now be 
wounded by praise or blame, it is, I hopt^ 
aUowable to remove the veil which an excess 
of modest reserve threw over uncommon merit. 

/ . To the friends of the author, for whom this 
little volume is principally intended, the names 
of a few persons who are mentioned in it viU 

[ vH ] 

tc knovnn. To the public it is presumed they 
caanotbe interestiog; The Young Lady whose 
talents and virtues are here pointed out to the 
reader, was little known in the world. Her 
shcH-t life was spent in retirement, and it affords 
no. incidents to awaken curiosity ; but it offers 
an example, which may be useful to all her sex,^ 
and particularly to the younger part of it; and 
I am encouraged to hope, that her writings may 
not be uninteresting to readers of a very different 
description.* I have only noticed such circum- 
stances in her ^^ short and simple annals,'' as 
seemed necessary to explain her letters, and to 
shew the progress of her improvement in dif* 
ferent branches of science. The use which she 
made of learning, and the effed: which it pro- 
duced on her condu£l in life, may be coUeAed 
from many parts of the following work, which 
will prove that every acquisitioQ in science only 

* See a letter from the Rer. Dr. R — to Mrs. S— 9 in 
the Appendix. 

while extensive reading, and deep refle£tioD» 
added strength to her conviAion gf those gr^t 
truths of revealed religion, which in life and 
in death sqpported her through every trial» and 
which can alone aflford consoIati(Xi to the pa^ 
rents and friends who live to mourn her loss* 




V^ISS Elizabeth S— was bom in the year 
"*" 1776. Some particulars relating to the early 
part of her life may be learnt from a letter written 
soon after her death by her a$i£led mother to the 
Bev. Dr. R — ^ in consequence of his request that sh<$ 
would inform him of such circun^stances with re* 
gard to the gradual progress of her daughter's mind^ 
as had not con^e pnder his own observation.* I 
will only mention here a few particulars^ which 
seem necessary to explain her writings, 

* See Appendix* 

C « ] 

When I first saw Miss S — , in the summer oT 
the year 1789, she was only in her thirteenth year^ 
and her extreme timidity made it difficult to draw 
her into conversation; but even then I saw many 
proofs of very uncommon talents. We were fre- 
quently together during the three following years; 
either at Piercefield, where Mr. and Mrs. S— then 
resided; or at Bath, where Miss S — and her sisters 
were often with us. At that time Elizabeth asto* 
nished us by the facility with which she acquired 
information on every subjeft. She excelled in every 
thing that she attempted. Music, Dancing, Draw- 
ing, and PerspeAive, were then her chief pursuits, 
and she succeeded in all ; but even at that early age, 
her greatest pleasure seemed to be-reading, which sbe 
would pursue with unwearied attention, during so 
many hours, that I often endeavoured to draw her 
away from her books, as I feared that .such close 
application might injure her health. She was then 
well acquainted with the French and Italian lan- 
guageg, and had made considerable progress in tb« 
studyof Geometry, and some other branches of the 
Mathematics. At every period of her life she was 
extremely fond of poetry. The following fragment . 
h dated in June 1792: 

I « 3 



^HE Sun, just rising from his wat'ry bed, 
-Shook from his golden locks the briny drops; 
Th^Earth her many-colom^d mantle spread. 
And caught the crystal on her How*rets tops; 
While Nature smil'd, to see her rising crops 
With brighter beauty gk)Wj and riclier hues ; 
As now the night her sable chariot stops. 
Each drooping fla%'r, refreshed with morning dews, 
Uiti its gay head, and iill. around its fragrance strews* 


So fair the inom, when Emma, fairer stil!. 
Left the loae cottage, now her sole retreat; 
And wander'd musing o'er the neighb'ring hill, 
'With downcast eyes, which weepmg lopkM more sweet. 
JQown to the vale she tum'd Jier trembling feet; 
There, in the middle of a shady wood, 
'0*erhung with trees, which branch to branch did meet. 
Glided a gentle strearb, where, as it stood. 
Each bough its image ^ew'd in the clear glassy flood. 

Here paus'd the Nymphf and on the bank reclined, 
'Neath a large oak fanned by each gentle gale; 
She sweU'd the brook with tears, with sighs the wind, 
And thus hermdancholy fate 'gan waiL 

B 9 

r 4 ] 

And ye, who read her sad and mournful tale, 
Oh! drop one tender sympathetic tear! 
Think that the best of human kind is frail. 
Nor knows the moment when his end is nearj 
But all sad Emma's hapless fate must fear. 


^ How fair each form in youthful fancy's eye«, 
«* Just like the tender flow'rs of blooming May; 
" Like them in all their beauty they arise, 
«« Like them they fade, and sudden die away. 
<« We mourn their loss, and wish their longer stay, 
«« But all in vain ; — ^no more the flow'rs return, 
** Nor fancy's images divinely gay ! 
^ So pass'd my early youth ; then in its turn 
^ Eacph fancied image pleas'd^ for each at times I bqnit ' 

V. ' 

f* How charming then o'er hill and vale to stray, 
*« When first the sun shot forth his morning beam; 
** Or when at eve he hid his golden ray, 
** To climb the rocks, and catch the last faint gleam; 
*« Or when the moon imbru'd in blood did seem, 
« To watch her rising from the distant hill, 
« Her soft light trembling on the azure stream, 
*« Which gently curl'd, while all beside was still ; 
" How would such scenes my heart with admiration fill! 

[ * -J 


*< But now, abs ! these peaceful days are o'er ; 
*< Fled like the suipmer breeze that wakes the dawn, 
** Wafts spicy odours swift from ^ore to shore^ 
^ And gathers all the fragrance of the lavm ; 
« Vet ere his noon-day crown the sun adorn, 
*< 'Tis past, 'tis gone; no more the scorching plains 
<* Can shew where blew the gentle breath of morn; 
*< The brook, the cattle, and the shepherd swains, 
^ All seek the shade; — but peace for Emma none remains ! 


la May^ . 179^> Miss H— ^companied me to 
Pietcefield ; and it is not extraordinary that simi- 
larity of talents and pursuits^ as well as sympathy in 
every thing that is good and amiable^ should lead 
Elizabeth to attach herself strongly to her. From 
that time a correspondence began, from which I have 
made a few extraS;s9 to shew what were her studies 
and amusements at fifteen years of age* 

"To Miss H • 

''Julj/1, 1792. 
^^ I am much obliged to you for all the informa « 
tion in your last letter^ and I hope I have found 
out what you wanted. I have been measuring cir-« 

[ 6 ] 

cles^ and find that my foormer coaje6^ure was rigtit; 
Sec. &C*-: — --I know not whether I have exphuned 
this properi y, but so h appears to me. I was a Kttle 
mortified to 9ee that my table was not quite tnzSt, 
though I fear it is as near as it can be brought; but 
if this way of making equal squares and circles is 
rights it will make me amends. The line in Dante 
is very applicable^ but I desire you wilt not begin to 
despair yet. I do not^ though there are many things 
that I prefer to these Mathematics. At the head of 
them stands Poetry. I thought some parts of Tasso- 
extremely fine. Dante I have not read. At present 
I am engaged in an argument with my dear Miss 
B — f concerning Ossian. I support him gainst all 
other poets. You may easily guess who will get 
the better ; but I will say all I can for Ossian^ for I 
really lave his poems beyond all others. Miltoft 
must stand alone; but surely Ossian is in some re- 
spects superior to Homer. Can you find any thing 
equal to his descriptions of nature ; his address to 
the Sun in Cartbon, that to the Moon in Darthula, 
and the last hymn ? Surely in *' the joy of grief,*' 
and in night scenes^ there is nothing equal to him. 
I would rather read the description of one: of: hi# 
ghosts than of ail Homer's gods. One of my greatest 

I r J 

i\Ba9(M)s for atloiiiring hrmis/that all his heroes art 
to good* There is not one of them thai would be 
gaiky of a cruet a^iimi for the workl^ nor would they 
mralto^r thedead* In shortyone cannot help loving 
arimo^ every person Ossian mentionSr Bcside^^ there 
are tto'vulgatr descriptions^ but every word is poetry;. 
By way of ComparisoD^ look at some partioilar de« 
•criptioi)' in Hooter and in Osstan : suppose it is a 
moon-light \ you will find but on^ of any conse*' 
quence in Horner^ and thenit is only A simile^ though 
a very beautiful one f it begins at the 687th line of 
the Sth book. Compare it with any one of the vaaT 
number you will find in Ossian. I think the ide» 
of the Moon retiring to weep for the sisters she has 
iost^ is finer than all the philosophy on the subjed*^ 
I love your fiowery meadows^ and murmuring 
sireams; but I cannot help preferring rude moun- 
tains^ roaring torrents^ and rocky pred pices* I could 
wander with pleasure in your sequestered vale, but 
»hould feel more transported by the grandeur of onr 
4)f Ossian's night scenes/' &c 

*f Jul]/ 27, ^792r 

•^ We have* not received any certain information^ 
ftspcAiog the Castle ^ but I aia inclined to give il^ 

[ 8 ] 

whatever it was^ to Llewellyn ap Gryfiydd^ whom we 
have determined to kill on a piece of ground adjoiur 
ing to it; and Mr. Williams, who is writing the his- 
tory of Monmouthshire^ told us, that Buillt, where 
it has been said he died, is somewhere near this 
place; he does not know exa£Uy where it is^ but we 
will find it out. I am sure it is in our woods. If 
this be not true, it is at least such a pretty Jittle 
fi£lion, and so harmless, that I really must belieye 
it. I wish you would write a poem on his death, 
and place it in our wood* You must say that it is 
translated from an old Welsh bard, and that will set 
the matter beyond a doubt.*' 


August 13* 

^* I am so delighted with what you say of I Jewel* 
lyn, that I cannot rest till I write to you. Has Mrs. 

shewn the manuscript to any person who 

understands Welsh ? She would not perhaps like to 
trust the original out of her own hands; but if she 
would have it copied, we could easily get it trans- 
lated for her, and should consider ourselves highly 
obliged by a sight of it. If it is what Mrs. -— 
supposes, it will indeed be invaluable. I have « 
great mind to believe that our Castle in the wooid^ 

C d 1 

the Castle of BoUtt^ far no one seems to know ,ex« 
aiStly where that is) and if the prince was. killed in 
our grounds^ it certainly is so. I hope the manu- 
script Will settle all our doubts ; at present we are 
obliged to fight hard, with every body we meet, in 
maintaining our cause. I am charmed with the 
name of Gwillim of Gwhent, the Blue Knight; it 
would be a good. one for the hero of a romance.'* 

The Castle mentioned in these Letters requires 
some explanation. Elizabeth discovered some re- 
mains of buildings in a wood, and thought she could 
trace out several round towers, a moat, &c. I re- 
member our walking over the spot where her lively 
imagination had built a Castle, of which she drew 
a plan from tne slight traces which remained. 
She was then unacquainted with archite^ure, but I 
shewed her little drawing to a gentleman who per- 
feftly understood the subjeft, and he said that he 
believed she was right in her conjecture, for the 
plan she had drawn was exadily what was usually 
adopted by the Romans in their castles« The fol- 
lowing paper will shew the indefatigable application 
with which Elizabeth pursued the enquiries, which 

[ la J 

a passage in Warrington's History of Wales Ted ber 
to make, in regard to the situation of Buillt^ and 
some other circumstance mentioned by him.* 

*Accoant of the death of Llewellyn, from Warringtoo's- 
History of Wales, page 509. 

«< LewellyD proceeded to the caotrew of Buillt, near thr 
water of Wye. 

■ ■ " The PrixKe was waiting in a small grore^ 

On the enemies first assault, his £s(}uire came to isform him 
that he heard a great outcry at the bridge. The Prince 
eagerly asked if his people were in possession of the bridge^ 
and being told that they were, he calmly replied, then hr 
would not stir from thence, though the whole power of Eng- 
land were on the other side of the river. This confidence,; 
tho' not improperly placed, lasted but a moment, the groee 
being surrounded by the enemies horse* Beset on ci«ry side, 
and cut off from his army, Llewellyn endeavoured as secret!]^ 
as he could to make good his retreat, and to join the troopir 
he had stationed on the mountain, whoy drawn up ia battir 
array, were eagerly expeding the return of their prince. Itr 
making this attempt, he was discovered and pursued by 
Adam de Franfton, who, perceiving him to be a Welshman^ 
and not knowing his quality, plunged his spear into the body 
of the prince, being unarmed and incapable of defence. The 
Welsh were afterwards defeated, and left two thousand naehr 
dead on the field. All this time Llewellyn la^ on thr 
ground, faint, and almost expiring. He had just life tniagik 

t H J 

*♦ Arthur seems to have been king of Gbvhenf> 
which comprthended alf Monmouthsiiire^ part of the 
dioceses of Hereford and Worcesteip> and the part of 
Glocestershire between the Wye aqd the Severn. 
Milton mentions Buillt in Breckpockshice^ Camderv 
mentions Kair-Lheon as a great city, having thre^ 
churches^ one of which was honoured with the n>e- 
tropolitan see of Wales. Here the Roman Ambas^ 
sadors received their audience at the illustrious court 
of the great King Arthur. &g. 

^* Upon the river Wye is Buillt. Whether thij- 
town be the ancient Bulloeum, or whether that city 
or fort were not at a place called Kareen, some.mile» 
distant from it^ may be questioned. If it be urged 
in &vour of Buillt^ that it seems still to retain its an- 
cient name; it may be answered that Buillt, which 
I interpret Ox-cliff, or Oxen-hill, was the name of a 
small country here^ from whence in all probabiKty 

remaining to ask for a priest. A white friar, who chanced 
to be present, administered to the dying Prince the last 
duties of his office. The hurry of the aflion being ended^ 
Frandlon came back to strip the person be had wounded. 
On viewing the body which was still breathing, it was 
found, to the great joy of the English army, that it was 
the Prince of Wales.** 

[ 18 3 

the ancient Bulloeum was- denominated; but that, be-' 
ing totally destroyed^ and this town becoming after- 
wards the most noted place of the country, it might 
receive its name from it as the former had done. 
But since thp congruity of the names was the main 
argument that induced our learned author to assign 
this situation to the ancient Bulloeum Silurum^ we 
shall have occasion of hesitating, if hereafter we find 
the ruins of a Roman fort or city in a neighbouring 
country of the Silures." — Carte* 

The above is only a very small part of the extraAs 
made by Miss S-^— , from Smollet, GoUier, Carte^ 
Camden, and Monasticon Ang, on this subje£i:» In 
a letter to Miss H — , dated December 12, 1792> 
she encloses a Poem, of which she says, ^^ Being 
determined to have a poem on Llewellyn's deatb^ 
and not being able to persuade you, my dear friend, 
to commit forgery, I have been obliged to try my 
hand at it, and I send it to you, because you desire 
me to continue rhyming ; though without making 
use of any of the modesty for which you so kindly 
give me credit, I must see that I do not deserve aU 
that you say on that subjeft. However, if it is J'our 

[ 13 3 

true opinion^ yoa must be delighted at being desired 
to read this volume of nonsense^ and if it is not, I 
have taken the most efTeftvial method to cure you of 
complimenting. Can you tell on what part of the 
banks of the Wye to find Mochros and Hentlan ? 
I can only find tl^at Hentlan is between the rivers 
Wye and Irgudina, which last I can no where dis- 
cover. Do not go far to look for if, as I know by 
experience what an undertaking it is* All those old 
authors copy after each other, and make nothing 
but confusion. I prefer my own way of making 
the history just as I please, without consulting one 
of them; and upon that principle, I intend to put 
the places I have mentioned, at or near Piercefield/' 

A supposed Translation from a Welsh Poem^ latelif dug up at 

PiSRCRFiELDf in the same spot where Llsjtelln 

AP GRrFFYD was slain^ Dec, \Othf 1281. 

Round Snowdon's shaggy brows grim darkness hung. 
Save that the mooD, the gather'd clouds among. 
Shot forth at times a dimly-gleaming ray. 
Then wat'ry, pale, tum'd her sad face away. 
In Merlin's cave I sate, 

And mark'd her tearful eye; 
Which seem'd to mourn the fate 
I>e£r£ed for some on high* 

What fate's decreed by heav'a, Uest beam of joigb^ 
That 80 disturbs thy 8weedy-«miliag li^t? 
No more it shines; — ^Thon tum^st thy &ce with scorn^ 
And darkly leav'st me, wretched and foiioro. 
Down the steep the torrent roars. 

Loud the thunder rings from &r» 
Billows shake the rocky shores, 
AH resounds the din of war. 

But hark! — ^This elemental war i« drown'd 
In one more great, and more terrific sound; 
A sound high Snowdon from his base to tear^ 
A sound the spirits of the dead shall fear:! 

Spirits of my sires, attend ! 

Down from your clouds, ye blest ones, bead! 

Tell me, whence these shrieks of woe 

With dies of death confus'dly flow? 

Great Merlin, thou, the chief of Prophets, hearl 
To thy own cave ^mid stormy winds draw near; 
Pour on n^ darken'd soul thy light divine, 
And give it in fair trudi'8l)right4ilaze to shine. 

He comes, he comes, in mist arrayed. 

Slow and solemn ^ides the shade! 

And while he -^^, the earth stamiU stil!. 

Listening to his mighty wilL 

*' Heav'n-favour'd Bard, my words attentive hear/ 
<* Words such as ne'er were giv'n to mortal ear| 

t 15 ] 

^ I teU die woeii to-morrow's sun diall bring, 

^ Cambria shall fall, ^hall lose her much-lor'd king* 

^ On Vaga's banks, near to wh«« once Buillt stoodl^ 

'** O'erlooking &ir Sabrina's silver flood, 

*« Pierc'd with a spear ingloriously he'll fall, 

«« Whence future times that spot shall Piercefield call/* 

So saying, like the meteor's blaze, 
The spirit flies; 
And while I gaze. 

The dim fed light b darkness dies ! 

But, oh, my country! how shall I deplore 
Thy cruel doom? Cambria shall be no more! 
Llewellyn too, our guardian king, shall fall, 
In him we lose our only hope,— -our all! 

Blow, ye winds; and roar, ye waves; 

Rend the mountains' inmost caves ; 

Let loose the spirits of the storm. 

Bid them rise in human form* 

More fierce than thry, m homan kstm appears 
That barb'rous Prince, who causes all our tears; 
A tiger's heart he i)ears beneath that face. 
Which seems to promise honour, goodness, grace. 
Let lightning flash,. 

And thunder growl. 
Let torrents daA» 
And theUack tempest o'er me scowl; 

[ 18 3 


This soul, in unison with ev'ry gusty 
Shall rage and bum till I be turn'd to dust; 
Ne'er shall I patient brook my country's doom. 
But sighingy sorrowing, sink into the tomb. 

Daughters of Cambria, with me moumi 

Sing the sad woe-breathing strain; 
• From your fair heads the ringlets torn . 

Scatter round tb' ensangum'd plain* 
No more in summer's even tide 

Your gentle flocks you'll lead 
To where the brook, with flow'ry side, 

Slow wanders through the mead; 
But soon to conquerors rude a prey, 

You'll quit your native land. 
And drag through life your moumfiil way, 

A wretched, captive band! 


Warriors, break the sounding mail. 

Cast down the lance, the helm untie; 
Arms shall now ho more avail. 

For you before the foe shall fly. 
No more, in deeds of arms renown'd. 

You'll dare the single fight; 
Or with exulting laurels crown'd, 

Assert your country's right; 

L 17 J 

But tath^ 'Woods and tnaf dies driv'n'f 

Ipglorioudj you'll sigh; 
For ah I to youit is notgiv'a 

Amidst your friends to die ! 

To Piercefield's ClifFs, 1*11 now a pilgrim go, 
Shed o*er my Prince belov*d the tears of woe ; 
There will I seek some deep and rocky cell. 
Amidst thethick^tslngled wood to dwell; 
• There indulge my plainuve theme^ 

To the wan moon's icy beam ; 

While the rocks responsive ringy 

To my harp's high-sounding string; 

Vaga stops her rolling tide, 

List'ning to her ancient pride; 

Birds and beasts my song attend. 
And mourn with me our country's fatal end ! 

^'ToMissH-^ • 

'^ Bath. Feb. 27^ n^^^ 

^^ Miss B. and I wish for you cvtry day, so that 
you are in no danger of being forgotten between us; 
and whilst we remember you, we cannot forget to 
love you. I am much obliged to you for aU the 
trouble you havie taken about the places I wished to 
find, but I believe it is a fruitless search. lam 

[ 18 ] 

persuaded their situation is not known^ and I intend 
to place them where I choose to have them* 

^^ The above was written this mornings when I 
did not exped: to leave this place before Friday^ but 
I now iind we are to go home to*morrow ; and I 
must^ however unwillingly, make an end of my let* 
ter. I hope to have more time at Piercefield, where 
we are now all to meet, after having been scattered 
over the face of the earth for the last half year. I 
shall be excessively grieved, asj/(7U can imagine^ to 
leave our dear friend ——5 but otherwise I shall not 
regret Bath/' 

At the commencement of the war, in the year 
1793, many Banks in the West of England fatldd^ 
and Mr, S — 's was unfortunately of that number. 
The domestic happiness to which Elizabeth looked 
forward when she wrote the last letter, was fetally 
interrupted by this event ; and I received from her 
the following letter, written only five days after she 
left Bath. The importance of the subjeA probably 
induced me to preserve this letter, when I destroyed 
many others which I shall never cease to regret* 
Alas ! I little thought that I should live to moum 
the early death of my amiable young friend^, whoit 

[ 19 ] 

talents and virtues were my pride and delight^ and 
who I bope4 would have been an ornament and a 
blessing to the worlds long after I was removed from 
it !«».^It has pleased God to order otherwise. 

^^ Ptercefieldy March 3, 1703. 

*^ We were within an hour of setting off from 

hence^ and intended to have seen you^ my dearest 

firiend, to-morrow; when we were prevented^ and I 

may say it is the only time I have ever rejoiced at 

being prevented seeing you. Last nighty after my 

Mother wrote to you, we were informed by a friend, 

that there was an execution against my Father, At 

ten o'clock at night —came to take possession 

of the house. It was secured, so that they could 

not enter; but you. may imagine the horror of our 

situation in that night of storms. Fortunately, the 

next day being Sunday, we had to watch only till 

twelve o'clock; and to-day wc were preparing to go 

away at eight this evening, when we heard that my 

Father's attorney was come from London, that the 

money was provided, and the execution stopped. 

There is to be a meeting of creditors to-morrow, 

who are to have an exa£k statement of all the con- 

cems of tbe Bank. My Mother supported herself 

C 2 

[ 20 ] 

wonderfully last nighty but to-day she was quite 
hausted^ till this news revived her a little. Mr. and 

Mrs. were in dreadful anxiety this morning, 

but I hope they too are a little comforted;^ in short 
the prospect now appears bright to what it did two 
hours ago^ and we shall all, I hope, bear whatever 
happens with fortitude. Above all^ my beloved 
friend, I entreat you not to be uneasy, for I trust all 
will be well. My only apprehension has been for 
my Mother; and I confess it has been hard work to 
appear cheerful, when I saw her agitated to the 
greatest degree, and knew I could in no way be of 
the least use; but she shewed great resolution, when- 
ever it was necessary. My Father now writes in 
better spirits, and I am happy to see her a little 

* In the summer of the year 1791, when the Bank was 

in a very flourishing state, Mr. , who was the ndlgh- 

bour and friend of Mr. S — y put his name in the firm, witlioat 
advancing any part of the capital, or receiving any share of 
the emoluments ; but on condition that his son shoukl be 
taken into the house as a clerk, and be admitted a ^stnoia oa 
his coming of age. In consequence of this drcumstance^ 
Mr. ' was involved in the misfortune which hai^ned in 
the year 1793 ; to the regret of all who knew him, and par- 
ticularly of the S — family, as all the letters which I received 
from them at this period strongly prov&. 

[ 21 3 

more at ease. My Mother desires me to say a thou- 
saad kind things for her. The servants, have behaved 
nobly^ and she hasJhad all the comfort that friends 
can give. If she had none but you^ she would be 
rich enough; and I shall wish for nothing more 
whilel know you are mine. Adieu, my dearest — ." 

I wient to Piercefield on the following day; but I 
will not attempt to describe the scene to which I 
was then a witness, AffliAions -so nobly supported 
make the sufferers obje^ of envy rather than pity ; 
it change of, forti^ne^ so sudden, and so unexpe£tedy 
was a great trialj, but it was received in a manner to 
command l^e respe& of all who witnessed it« I bad 
long seep and admired Mrs. S — , in the situation 
in which the seemed peculiarly formed to shine; . in 
one of the finest places in England, surrounded by 
her lovely cbildrep^ with all the elegani comforts of 
affluence, and delighting her happy guests by the 
fascinating Qbarms of her conversation. Through 
all the misfortunes which marked the period of which. 
I am now speakingj I jcui with truth say of . Mrs. 
S— , what she says of her beloved daughter, that I 
do not reooUeft t single instance of a murmur hav- 

[ 22 ] 

ing escaped her, on account of the loss of fortixne j 
but there were other circumstances attending this 
sad event, which such a heart as hers must deeply 
feel ; and a letter which is now before me, speaks the 
language of all that I received from her at that pe-- 

riod : *' The business is again delayed. I am 

averse to this prolongation of our misery, but it is a 
duty we owe to ■ to do every thing which can 
be likely to save them. Oh, my friend, if tliis 
amiable family were biit secure, I should be no 
longer miserable ; but as it is, the thought of their 
situation sometimes sinks me almost to despair/* 
This was an affliction, under which even conscious 
refiitude was not sufficient to support her; but the 
loss of fortune, as it was occasioned neither by ex* 
travagance nor vice, and dignified by sueh obnduA 
as secured the respe£t and esteem of their friendsj 
was supported by every individual of the family with 
truly christian fortitude and resignation. . 

In a few days after I went to Pierceifield, my friends 
quitted it forever; and the young ladies spent seven 
^ or eight months with us, in and near Bath. The 
time which was thus spent with niy Mother, wa9 
certainly of great advantage to my young frieodsl 
for she was extremely fond of them^ and nothing. 

[ 83 3 

cUuibemorejust diau what Mrs, S— says of l)er 
peculiarly happy manner of conveying insiru&ion. 
Many of fheir favourite pursuits had been inter- 
mpted. They had'lost the subUme scenes of Pierce* 
field, which furnished an infinite variety of subjeds 
for the pencil. They drew extremely well, and 
Elizabeth was completely mistress of perspedive. 
Her musical talents were very uncommon s she 
played remaricably well both on the Piano-Forte and 
Harp, but she had I(tet her instruments. The li- 
brary, of which she so well knew the value, was 
gone. Always averse to lai^ parties, and with no 
taste for dissipation, she readily agreed to a plan of 
employment proposed by my Mother, and we en« 
iered on a regular course of history, both ancient 
and modem. At other times we studied Shake* 
speare, Milton, and some other English poets, as 
well as some of the Italians. We took long walks^ 
and often ' drew from nature. We read with great 
attention the whole of the New Testament, Seeker's 
Le£lures on the Catechism, and several other books 
on the same important subjedts. After my Mother 
retired to rest, we usually studied the stars, and read 
Bonycastle's Astronomy, which reminds me of the 
followiag circumstance :— Elizabeth told meL one 

[ 24 ] 

evening that she did not perfe£kly understand what 
is said in Bony castle^ page 91^ of Kqpler's celebia« 
ted calculation^ by which he discovered that the 
squares of the periods of the planets are in proportion 
to the cubes of their distances. She wanted to kjoow 
how to make use of this rule^ but I confessed nay 
ijnability to assist her. When I came down to 
breakfast at nine the next mornings I found her with 
a folio sheet of paper almost covered with figures ; 
and I discovered that she rose^is soon as itwasligbt^ 
and by means of Bonycastle's Arithmetic, h^d |eamt 
to extra£t the cube root^ ^uid had afterwards calcu- 
lated the periods and distances of several plaqetSj so 
as clearly to shew the accuracy of Kepler's rule^ and 
the method of employing it. In such pursuits as I 
have mentioned, I could accompany her ; but in 
others she had a much better assistant in our mu- 
tual friend. Miss H — , who, fortunately for m, spent 
four months in our neighbourhood, and was the 
companion of our studies and our. pleasures. She 
led Miss S — to the study of the German language, 
of which she was afterwards particularly fond. 
She assisted her in Botanical and other pu^its, as 
well as in different branches of the Matheoiatics... I 
do not know when Elizabeth began to learn SpjBtoi^b, 

[ 25 ] was at an. earlier period than that of >whichl 
am new speaking; when she was witb us, she 
seemed to read it without difficulty^ and some houF» 
every morning before breakfast were devoted to 
these studies. She acquired some knowledge of the 
Arabic and Persian languages during' the following 
winter, when a. very finedidionary and grammar, in 
tht possession of her Brother, led her thoughts to 
Oriental literature. She began to study Latin and 
Greek, in the year 1794, when Mr. CU-^'s excellent 
library, and improving conversation, opened to her 
an inexhaustible fund of information* She studied 
Hebrew from my Mother's Bible, with the assist- 
ance of Parkhurst.; but she had no regular instruc- 
tion in any language except French. Her love of 
Ossian led her to acquire some knowledge of the 
Krse language, but the want of books made it \xa^ 
possible for her to pursue that study as far as she^ 
wished. Some eztrads from her letters will shew 
how she was employed during the following years. 

^^ August^ 1793. 

*^ Wb never take a pleasant walk, or read any 
thing intorestipg, but some one says, ' I wish Miss 
H— werf ; here,' and you may be sure that nobod? 

[ 26 J 

contradi£b it. Besides all other reasons for this 
wish, I want to shew you every pretty passage I 
meet with in German, which I do not like half so 
well, now that I have no one to enjoy it with me. 
I have read none since you left me, except two books 

of Dr. R *s, Der Golden Spiegel, which is an 

imitation of an Eastern Tale, by way of making 
dissertations upon government. It is entertaining^ 
and there is an account of a happy valley, that 
makes one long to live in it. The other book is 
WiesserCs Poems, some of which are very pretty/* 

'* October IB. 
*^ I have a nice coIle£lion of German books, whi^h 
Miss B — has borrowed for me. There is the Iliad^ 
which seems to me a very good translation. I think 
the sound is more regularly fine than Pope'is, and 
some of the descriptions of nature are much saperior 
to his; but the tender sentiments, which the learned 
say are not in the original, are not to be traced in 
the German translation. In that resped: we shall 
all prefer Pope. There is the Messiah, which I am 
reading a second time with more pleasure than the 
first. A very pretty colIeAion of Pbems by diflbr- 
cnt persons; a Novel; and a book of Plays; soyou 

[ 27 ] 

see I am well furnished at present; I wish I had 
you to enjoy them with me. 

'' My favourite study just now is Algebra ; and I 
find by Saunderson^ that if we had consulted proper 
books; we. should never have spent so much time in 
measuring squareis and circles ; for though by the 
means weused^ (which were perfectly right>) it may 
he brought inconceivably near^ it is impossible to 
prove it maihematically exafk. For example:--'--! — 
I hope you' will not have the head-^ache when this 
arrives, or you will wish my Mathematics at Bath 
again; but when I have learnt any thing that we 
usied to puzzle aboiit together, I am never easy till 
yott'know it.' 


^^ Naoember 17. 
• ^^ Sbnd me no Latin quotations, for I understand 
them only when the translation comes with them. 
I have just finished Klbpstock'^ Messiah, which I 
have been reading aqgain, as I did not above half 
understand it before. There is more of it than there 
was in Miss — 's, which was, I believe, only fifteen 
books. This is in twenty-two books, and is con* 
tinned to the Ascension, with many hymns and 
songs afterwards. He supposes at that time a day 

of judgment^ and that Abandona wa£^ pardoned, Prajr 

^nfbrm Miss of this^ for I remember hearing 

her regret bis fate/' 

^^Jprtll, 1194. : 


^' I have not thought of you the less because I 
have been too idle to write. You know it is an old 
fault of minc^ and it will only be wasting your time 
and my own to make an apology as long as my 
silence. I am very rich in German books just now, 
for Dr. R — ^ who has a great many^ has given me 
the entre of his library, to take whatever I like* I 
have got your friend Kliest, which I think delightfb); 
Haller's Poems; and Zimmerman's Einsamkctt, 
which pleases me more than almost any book I ever 
read. How much am I obliged to you for teaching 
me German ! I assure you I never read a beautiful 
passage, without thinking it is to you I owe the 
pleasure I enjoy, and wishing you could enjoy it 
with me; for after all it is but a selfish sort oflhifi^ 
to read merely to entertain oneself. There are. some 
ideas in Zimmerman upon a future state very like 
your book.* I envy you extremely in reading Virgil. 
I must learn Latin some day or other. At present 

* Essay on the Happiness of the Life to Come. 

£ 29 3 

I nm. puzzling at Persian and Arabic^ and I mean 
to b^n-Hebrew. I get on least with Spanish^ for 
I have been able to meet with only one book since I 
read Don Gluixotte^ which was the History of the 
Incas^ by Garcillasso dela Vega. I was very much 
pleased with it, though, it is very Idng^ and in some 
parts t^ious* I wish I had your patience to trans- 
late from one language to another, for I believe it is 
the only way of being perfed in any ; but I succeed 
so ill in writing, of any kind, that I. never like to 
attempt it. I met with a thought in Haller, which- 
was new to me, and pleased me much; but^ per^ 
haps, if you have met with it before, it may not 
strike you as it did me. Speaking of the weakness 
of reason without revelation, he says, 

^ Vemanft kan, wie der moodt ein trott der duokelaZieiteiiy 
¥ Uns dncch die brauqe nacjit mit halbem schimmer leitea; 
*< Der warheit moigeo-rohtzeigt erst die wahre weh, 
** Wann Gottes soonen-licht darch unser dammruog fallt*"* 

* ** ReatoQ. like the mooD^ a consolatioQ in darknesSf caa 
guide us widi its faint rays.throu^ the dusky night* The 
morning dawn of truth shews the real world, when the light 
of the sun breaks through our twilight*''— -iftf/iW' oo RtMoih 
Su^tfi^htif and Infiddkjf* 

[ 80 ] 

*^ I forgot to thank you for all the trouble you. took 
about Canada. It was very kind indeed^ and there* 
fore like yourself; but I am sorry to say it was to no 
purpose^ for it is entirely given up; much against 
my will, for I was delighted with the idea^ and 
wished excessively to go^ but I despair of ever seeing 
it now.** 

" London, Feb. 1795. 
^^ I believe I told you I should learn Latin before 
•I saw you next, and Shirley* was a very good place 
for ity I therefore began soon after I went there; and 
I have read Caesar's Commentaries, Livy, and some 
volumes of Cicero,, amongst which I almost wish 
the letters to his friends had not been, for they shew 
his whole charadler to be so much put on, that they 
have let him down many degrees in my opinion* 
As to Persian, all my books are at Bath, so that I 
shall most probably forget the little I knew when I 

■ ■ 

* The seat of J — C — » esq; where Msa S— spent 
tome time in the latter part of the year 1794«9 and much of 
the followiDg year. To this gentlemaoy aud to his lady 
who is nearly related to Mr. S— -9 the family always acknow- 
ledge the highest obligation*. — Sec Mrs. 5"— /p Dr. ii--> 
in the Appendix. 

t 31 1 

saw you last. I have met with neither German nor 
SpanUh books; so that if it were not for Latin^ I 
should be quite iiv despair. I am very impatitot to 
begin Virgil., 

^^ March Uf 1795. 
^^ I have just finished the second book of the 
Georgics, and was particularly delighted with the 
last dghty.&ur verses. The description of the 
storm in the first book I think is very fine.'' 

( • 

" Skirley, July 28, 1795. 
^f I think as you do of Emilia Galotti. Die 
RaubejT I never saw. Indeed I have scarcely read 
any German or Spanish since I left Bath. I must 
tell. you that I cannot help being quite reconciled to 
Cicero. I have gone through all that I can find 
here of his works, and am so fully persuaded that a 
man who could write as be does, could have no great 
faults, that I must, with your leave, forgive his little 
ones. If you have not yet met with it, only reaa, as 
Zj sample, the first book of his Tusculan disputations, 
' de contemnenda morte,' and I think you will agree 
with me, that with the addition of Christianity to 
confirm his suppositions, and x^&ify a few mistake? 

[ 52 ] 

in them, and the knowledge of the true state of the 
universe^ no dodrine can be more perfed: than hv; 
and that half the modern books on the subjeft might 
have been spared^ had the writers of them^ before 
they began, read this dialogue* 

<' I have just finished Clarendon's History of the 
Rdbellion, which Miss B — long ago desired me to 
Tead» It is extremely interesting and instni&iyec 
Here is another of her favourites, Spencer, which I 
once gave up in despair, but which I am v^ .ghul 
I have read, for I am charmed with it, and I think 
some of the lesser poems are even superior to the 
Fairy Queen; We have read Mr. Gisbome's book* 
aloud, and all the party was extremely pleased 
with it. 

'^ I have got a new Atlas of all the remarkable 
fixed stars that are visible to us, without the figures* 
I would shew it to you, if you would meet me on 
the wings of Pegasus, or any other convenient plaoe 
you will appoint in the upper regions, for it doet 
not seem probable that we should soon see' each 
other in these below. Have you read Horace yet? 
Pray do not lose a moment 3 he is indeed deligbt* 

♦ On die Duties of Man.- 

[ 33 3 

" Shirley y October 5, 1795. 
*^ I have not seen Gellert.. Oberou I have read, 
4nd was much pleased with some parts of it.. It is 
a litde in tbc style of Ariosto. Pray tell Miss — , 
(since she does Qae the honour to enquire^) that of 
Spencer's lesser poems I was most pleased with 
Astropfael> some of the Eclogues^ particularly Jana-* 
ary and June^ and the Hymn in honour 6f Beauty^ 
which is as well written as if he had studied Lavater. 
In have just finished Froissard, which^ though rather 
tedious^ I found very entertaining, and in a much 
pleasanter style than most of the modem French 
writers. Immediately before this great undertaking, 
I read the Memoirs of Petrarch> which made, a .very 
good line of history^ containing the* whole of the 
fimrteentb . century^ With this book I was exces* 
lively pleased. It is impossible not to love Petrarch, 
if it were only for crying when his father threw 
Cicero and Vir^l into the fire. He was a passion- 
ate admirer of Cicero, and I think a strong resem^ 
blance may be traced between their chara&ers, tho' 
the circumstances in which they lived were so 
different. You see in both the same love of glory, 
the same patriotism, the same high opinion of him* 
self, which })e endeavours to conceal from others, 


[ 34 ] 

perhaps even from himself^ by a cloak of humility. 
You discover in each an equal warmth of friendship; 
and I cannot help thinking that if Cicero had met 
with Laura^ or Petrarch been consul in the flou- 
rishing times of the Roman Republic, the former 
would have been the poet, and the latter the orator, 
I hope I have improved a little in Botany this sum- 
mer as well as you/' 

^^ March S, 1796. 
^^ Have you seen Mason's new volume of Poems? 
There are some very beautiful things in it. I have 
been feasting lately on German poetry. The Graff 
von Stolberg; Holly 3 Matthison; and a translation 
of Young. I have been much pleased with Zim- 
merman's Nationalstoltz. My ears are stunned, and 
my patience exhausted, by the ridiculous and con- 
tradiSory reports that are incessantly vociferated on 
all sides of me. No one can speak or write of any 
thing but the French, If they have not murdered or 
enslaved our persons, they have at least taken com- 
plete possession of our minds, and banished every 
iJea of which they are not the objetS:. As you 
probably hear as much, and are as tired of them as 
myself, I will only assure you, that they have not 

[ 35 3 

driven from my brain the idea of yon^ nor firom my 
heart the tender afieftion with which I am^ &c.'' 

On the 22d of May 1 796, Mrs. and Miss S— - set 
out for Ireland, where they stayed only three or four 
months. The following letter was written the day 
before Elizabeth left Bath* The dejedion expressisd 
in it was occasioned by sorrows of a very different 
description ftom the loss of fortune. 

^^ Bath, May Ql. 

^' Mr lazy fit has lasted so long this tim^^ that 
I dare not venture to make any apology for it, and 
scarcely should I dare to write again, but that I 
cannot resolve to quit this island without once more 
assuring my dear friend, that my esteem and affec* 
tion are not in the least abated by absence, and that 
I love her exa£Uy as much as if I had told her so an 
hundred times over. 

** My mother and I set off to-morrow morning 
for Ireland. I^y — ^ — and Miss — — have sent 
us a most obliging invitation to their house, and I 
hope we shall pass a day and a night there* Do 
you not envy us this visit ? If we could cairry you 
and our beloved friend with us^ it would be more 

D 2 

[ 36 3 

than earthly happiness. On the whole I am ex* 
tremely pleased with the idea of our expedition ; for 
besides my natural love of rambling, and of seeing 
and knowing every shing that H worth the trouble, 
I am weary of the world. To quit il; is not in my 
power; but in leaving England, I shall leave the 
only world with which I am acquainted, the scene 
of all our miseries. You never before heard me 
complain of miseries. I never before had any to 
complain of. Against this negative pleasure in 
quitting this country, is to be set the positive pun of 
leaving some very dear friends; but I seldom see 
you and Miss B — y and I shall still have the coi&«. 
sol^ion of loving you. I shall leave my K-«* with 
great regret, but we must learn to bear it. We are 
happy in the thoughts <^ 'seeing my Father, who. 
has been very uncomfortably situated* during the 
last year. We talk of returning in the autumn, and. 
I am glad it is talked of, because it makes -my Mo-^ 
fher quit England with less relu6lance than she 
otherwise would; but I strongly suspeA that we shall 
cither take up our abode in Ireland or go abroad 
wherever the regiment may happen to be ordered ; 
^ but this is written . in the boc^ of fate,^ and • hq 
human eye can read it." I am grieved at -gofaaig 

[ 37 3 

from Bath just before you come. I have not seen 
you these two years^ and I may be drowned^ I may 
never return^ I may never see you again till ^ the 
life to come/ By the by, have you read Lavater's 
Gcheime Tagebuck^ Kc. f There is in it a quota- 
tion from a sermon by his friend Pfenningen, so 
exa£tly like your little book> tb^t I wanted you to 
read it with me, I can give you no account of my 
studies, but that I have read nothing in the last 
half year. My Mother and I are going to take leave 
of our dear Mias B— *• I wish you were here to 
comfort her, she wants it sadly ; I hope constantly 
to hear of her from you* Do not forget me; an^ 
foe assured whatever changes may happen to me, of 
fortune, or habitation, my sincere aSedion for my 
Mary will never change. Adieu, perhaps for everl^' 

llie visit al -r-*^ more than answered the expeft* 
atioti of my friends, and the very obliging manner 
in which they were received^ was highly gratifying 
to me. I had a letter from Miss S— - on this 
subjed, which I particularly regret; but it was 
destroyed with many others. Mrs. and Miss S-« 
were mud( pleased with what they saw of Ireland^^ 
and yery gratefol for many civilities received there; 

[ 38 ] 

but I have nothing written at that time except the 
following short letter to Miss H — , written from 
the county of Sligo. 

^^ August 8, 1 796. 
^^ I have not time to say half what I think and 
feel in answer to your last letter, my dearest Mary ; 
I will call you so since you like it, though I had 
forgot that I was ever so impertinent to do it before* 
I frequently wish for you and our beloved friend^ to 
make you wander through a valley, between moun- 
tains tossed together in all the wild and rugged forms 
imaginable, with an hundred cascades dashing froin 
their summits, and forming a beautiful lake at the 
bottom; to shew you the fine efTe^ of light and 
Bhade on the hills when the sun shines ; and when 
he does not, the clouds hiding their heads, descend- 
ing half way down them, and sometimes entirely 
blotting them out of the landscape; then breaking 
away by degrees, and ascending like smoke. I never 
before knew so well what Ossian meant by the thick 
mist of the valley, and the ragged skirts of a cloud 
as it sails slowly over the dark heath, I^flen-think 
I see the grey cloud of which his father's robe la 

[ 39 ] 

made. I hope we may meet in the winter; but 
sometimes I almost despair. However, I shall not 
be less in one place than another, your tenderly 
affedionate friend," 

Mrs. and Miss S— - returned to Bath in Ofiober^ 
and my Mother, who was extremely ill, received 
from them every comfort which friendship could 
bestow. Elizabeth spent part of the following 
winter with us. Perhaps the awful scene she then 
witnessed, might give a peculiarly serious turn to a 
mind which was always disposed to deep refle&ion, 
and fervent piety. The following reflexions are 
taken from her little pocket-books, and were written 
in 1796 and 1797. 

^^ I find it a very good method to write down my 
thoughts as they occur, for an idea often strikes me^ 
wbich, turning to something else, I forget imme- 
diately; but considering it as much as is necessary 
to write it down, makes me more acquainted with 
the subjeft, and makes my thoughts more my own. 
For want of some such plan, I see people dreaming 
away their lives in ina&ivity of mind, without form- 
ing any opinions of their own^ till from paying no 

;[ 40 ] 

attention to their thoughts^ they come not to think 
at aU/' 

*^ When we contemplate the ways of Providencei 
we are like a person unskilled in painting, who looks 
at a half-finished pi&ure; he is immediately struck 
with the want of harmony in the colouring, and the 
improper disposition of light and shade, and thinks 
he shews his wisdom by finding faults in the ^hole 
plan, and in the execution of every part ; but let him 
wait till it is finished, and he will then be forced to 
acknowledge that every stroke has contributed to the 
beauty of the whole, and that w^at he considered as 
defedln, now appear the chief beauties of the piece* 
Perhaps there is none but an artist equal to the 
painter of the picture, who can, before it is finished, 
imagine what effeft will be produced; unless then we 
can suppose the creature to be equal to the Creator, 
and the pi&ure to rise up against the painter, let us 
not presume to call in question the ordinances of 
God, but w^t till bis plans are accomplished, whetf 
we shall be convinced that ' whatever is, is right!^ • 

^^ Is the capacity of man finite ? Is God infinite t 
How can the finite comprehend the infinite ? 


C 4> 1 

*^ The pity of the world appears to be very much 
misplaced ; it is entirely withdrawn from those who 
have fallen into misfortune through their own faulty 
and most liberally bestowed on the virtuous unfor- 
tunate^ but the virtuous have no need of pity. They 
never can be miserable, whatever may befal them ; 
and it is their place to look down with pity on the 
wicked, whether glorying in the smiles of fortunci 
or despairiiig at her frowns." 

<^ I do not see that the failure of intelled: which 
we sometimes observe in old people, and in youi)g 
ones in some cases of sickness, is any argument 
against the immortality of the soul. We are igno- 
rant how the soul will ad after its separation from 
the body; but we know that during their unicxi^ 
neither can do any thing without the assistance of 
the other; therefore, when the faculties decay, we 
dre not to suppose that the soul is injured, but that 
the organs, whatever they are, by which it commu- 
nicates with the body, and by which ideas are pre- 
sented to it, have sustained some damage. As, if 
a man become blind, we do not say that his soul 
is changed, but that the organ by which images 
were presented to it, is injiaered; and accordingly^ if 

[ 48 ] 

his eyes are cured^ the soul is just as able to distin* 
guish obje£ts as ever. In the same manner, the 
sick person, whose nerves (or whatever it is on which 
the soul immediately ads) have recovered their 
tone, is able to think, and speak, and understand, 
as formerly. The workman is not in faulty but 
some part of his machine is out of order/' 

" The most difficult vice to conquer, is pride; I 
mean a high idea of our own merits, and a spirit of 
rebellion. This came in Eve's way; she fell, and 
perhaps there is not one of her posterity who would 
not have done the same.'' 

^^ Reason is the most unreasonable of all things^ 
for without common sense to guide it, it never knows 
where to stop.'' 

^' The most inconsistent thing in the world is to 
expe£i: consistency of man, at the same time that 
we know him to be entirely dependent on circum- 
stances. What we have most earnestly wished, is 
often proved by events to have been the worst thing 
that could happen to us. We do, and must, change 
onr opinions according to every circumstance that 

[♦3 1 

occurs^ unless we could know all things^ and take 
in the present^ past^ and future^ at a glance.*' 

<^ It is surprising how the opinions of the same 
person change in the course of a few years. It is 
therefore improving, as well as amusing, to write 
down the thoughts that pccur^ in order to look them 
over after some time, and see in what respe£ls I 
may have advanced^ in what receded^ and redify 

^^ I have no idea of heaping up money, or of any 
pleasure in saying so much is mine ; it is not mine 
till I use it. I shall therefore^ whenever I have any^ 
lay it out as I find proper occasions; trusting to that 
Providence which has never suffered me to want^ 
even when I had no probable means of subsisting;, 
to supply me when I stand in neexl. Never refuse 
to give to-day, lest you should want to-morrow.'' 

^' How light are all the troubles of this world to 
those who value every thing it contains according to 
its real worth ! They may appear insensible to those 
who reckon by a different standard^ but they can 
bear eyen this imputation^ for they know the value 

t 44 ] 

of human applause. How happy should we be^ if 
we could always feeU as we sometimes think!** 

^^ I cannot bear to hear people say, ^ such a per* 
son did me favour^ but I have returned it^ and am 
no longer obliged to him.^ If any one does me a 
favour^ without the least expe£tation or wish of a 
reward^ though it should afterwards be in my power 
to do ten times more for that person, I can never 
repay the original obligation, which from its nature 
does not admit of any recompense, but remains for 
ever in its full force.'* 

<^ One great cause of the republican spirit which 
prevails at present, appears to have been a false prin* 
ciple in education, that it is necessary to convince. 
a child by reason before you expef): him to obey^ 
Now reason, being the faculty of comparing ideas 
already presented to the mind, cannot exist in a 
child, to whom few or no ideas have been presented ; 
and no one was ever convinced by the reasoning of 
another. It is therefore impossible to ccmvince 
him; and if he be suffered to do as he please till h$ 
be capable of reasoning, it is a great chance if hia 
understanding be not so warped by the pra£Uce of ' 

C « ] 

evil, that he mistake it.fpr good; and it is most pro- 
bable that he may have contracted such a habit of 
disobedience^ as not willingly to submit to the laws 
of his country, or even to those of his God." 

'* The progress of understanding is like learning 
to play on a musical instrument. Education doeS 
not create it, any more than a music-master creates 
fingers, it only.^ves us the power of using them 
rightly. Give an instrument to a person who has. 
never heard music^ and who is ignorant of the prin* 
ciples of it, he will probably produce some sound,, 
but it will be discordant and without meaning. 
This I should suppose the state of a man who has 
always lived on a desolate island by himself. He 
will have £bupd the use of his bodily organs, but 
will scarcely have discovered his mental faculties* 
On the contrary, a person who has been taught the 
principles of music, makes himself perfectly ac- 
quainted with them by practice, till from playing the 
music of others, he at length composes new on the 
same principles; as he learns to use his understand- 
ing first by reading and hearing the opinions of otherSj^ 
and then forms his own. Thus the soul and body 
are reciprocally as the musipian and the instrument/^ 

[ 46 ] 

^' I find nothing so efiedual in abating self-con- 
ceit as to look on people who evidently have quite as 
high an opinion of themselves in any given respedtj 
as I have, and to see that they are mistaken. It in 
very possible I may be so too/* 

^' It is the fashion now to consider the abilities- 
of women as being on an equality with those of men. 
T do not deny that there may be many women whose 
abilities, and still more their powers of conversation^ 
are superior to those of the generality of men; but 
there never was among women a Milton, a New- 
ton, &c." 

^^ The more talents and good qualities^ we have 
received, the more humble we ought to be, because 
we have the less merit in doing right/' 

^^ How very narrow are all the limits of the 
human understanding! Our situation in this world 
is like that of a person groping about in the dark. 
Whatever path of science we turn into, we naeet * 
with no obstacles that may not easily be surmounted^ 
we flatter ourselves that we have made great disco- 
veries, and think there will be no end of our pro* 

[ *7 ] 

gress till we perfeAIy understand every thing; when 
on a sudden we knock our heads against the mud 
walls of our habitation^ and are beat back by the 
blovo^ to the centre of ignorance from whence we 
set out," 

^^ No event which I thought unfortunate has 
ever happened to me^ but I have been convinced^ at 
some time or other^ that it was not a misfortunei 
but a blessing. I can never then in reason com- 
plain of any thing that happens^ because^ I am per* 
suaded it is permitted for some good purpose." 

** I am surprised^ on observing my thoughts^ to 
find how very rarely they are employed in any thing 
worth thinking about^ how seldom they are even 
common sense. Conscience tells me that a great 
part of my life is wasted in foolish imaginations and 
idle dreams." 

ff We cannot have a more striking proof of the 
incapacity of man^ than the methods he takes to hide 
from himself his own ignorance. When he meets 
with any thing in nature which he can neither ex- 
plain nor understand^ be invents a oame^ by which 

[ 48 ] 

he impoBes on the world with aa appearance of 
wisdom; and sometimes even fancies himself wise^ 
because be has not acknowledged his ignorance. For 
instance^ we pretend to know what it is that moves 
the planets in their orbits^ and we call it attra&ion; 
though it is plain we are no wiser than if the word 
bad never been used. We meet with a fosBil- of 
which we cannot account for the formation ; a plant 
or an animal differing from any we have before seen^ 
we say it is a lusus natune. Some person is 
afle£ted with a disorder we do not understand,, 
immediately said to be nervous. If two or three of 
our acquaintance are afre6led in the same manner, 
it is a disorder that goes about, it is in the air ; 
though perhaps the air has no more to do with it 
than any of the other elements ; and each perspn, 
after uttering one of these wise sentences, sits down 
satisfied that he has completely explained his subjejfl, 

^^ It is not surprising that so few, so very few, 
geniuses appear in the world, if we consider how 
many circumstances are necessary to their produc- 
tion: for it is not enough that nature has given a 
bold and enterprising spirit^ capable of the greatest 
undertakings, if the shell it inhabits is rooted to one 

t 49 J 

•I^t>'ai3d compdlftd to labour for. daily bread : it is 
Bol enough thai she has created a poet, if the mind^ 
fill! of ardbUFandentbusiasm, be doomed to plod the 
dull round of trad^. ' She has in vain bestowed the 
facuhy of deep investigation^ atid of tracing the hid- 
den causes of things^ on one, i^vho, in' the constant 
hurry of adion, finds no leisure for m^^diution ; 6r 
given to a woman a spirit of curiosity able to itiStke 
useful discoveries in every branch of science^ which, 
from a narrow prejudice, must be confined to the 
afiairs of her neighbours. Thus I am persuaded 
genius often exists, but lies concealed, sometimes 
even from the jpossessor of it, for want of c^casions 
to call it forth." 


*^ Thkt are most vain, who say they have no 
vanity: for no one ever thought that the want of va- 
nity he boasts of, proceeded from want of merit ; he 
rather thinks that he 'excels all mankind in having 
a mind superior to vanity; and what is this opinion 
)>ut the summit of vanity ? '' 

^^ Thb greatest misfortune in the world is to 
have more learning than good sense.*' 

^^ MAvr people find fiiult with those who aludjf 
languages, and say they atudy only wordily and forget 
ideas; but those who do so never will letm Mlf 
number of laaguagefl, for it is totally impoaaihlc tb 
temember so great a number of words as is oon* 
tained in (me language without aflixing ideas to 
them. The truth is^ those who learn languages to 
any purpose,, study ideas onfy^ through the mediam 
of words their signs. Unless we clearly undentsnd 
the sign, we cannot comprehend the thing signifisd. 
Those who consider this matter at all, must acknow* 
ledge that there are very few words in the Engliali 
languagjB which have any meaning in English, but 
that they are chiefly derived firom the Saxon, Ftencb^. 
Latin, Greek; and those again from the Hebreiir, 
^d other Eastern Languages. It follows thertefiire, 
that those only who understand all those languagesy 
(perhaps many more might be added,) perfeeify 
understand English; and those who are acquainfced 
with none of them, speak the words- they have learnt 
from custom, like a parrot, but without clearly Uh* 
derstanding the ideas which are meant to be con^ 
yeyed by them. The study of languages is therefiNre 
not only pleasing and profitable for the sdike ofreadM 
ing the poetry, and other * books which cannot be 

C 41 3 

tratnstftted ; but it gifes a much higher relish for the 
beauties of our bwn language^ by enabling us to'feel 
tte force of every expression^ which a common 
leader passtti ofer without observation/' ' 

^^ Thosi whb know a little tset tery anxious to 
reform every thing | those who know more^ art 
convinced of the impossillility of oompleat rcfform- 
8tion^ and therefore art inclined to leaire every thing 
ar they found it. Those who undefstaiid IVench^ 
dt laxm, or German^ derive all £hgliflfc Words tttA 
which ever of those langui^ they hsij^pefi ttii 
be acquainted with^ and endeavour fO vh4t(} ittA 
pronounce them accordingly^ and certainly our 
language has sufiered much from thesepretended 
reformers. On the contrary^ if they were to make 
themselves acquainted with alt the languages above 
menuoned, they vrould probably discover that they 
had been mistaken in many of their etymok)gies» 
The English tongue is perhi^ more mixed than any 
other^ and its corruptions are chiefly owing to half« 
learned reformers. This reasoning is applicable lo 
ail schemes of genera/ reformation. We had better 

what we do not understand } and if 

B 51 

[ 52 ] 

we put th^ question homCf what is it th^t w« d» 

^^ It appears to xne probable, that in the originaf 
language^ all the nouns^ and the roots of verbs, 
(which were the third person singular of the prete- 
rite,) were monosyllables, perhaps consisting of not 
more than two letters; and that from thence the 
different tenses of the verbs, and the derivations of 
the nouns, were formed, by the addition of a letter 
before or iafter. The confusion at Babel might 
consist in some men's being deprived of the power 
of pronouncing certain letters/' 

' ^^ From the little information I can colled by 
trabing languages towards their source^ it appears 
probable that when the inhabitants of the earth 
quarrelled at Babel, and dispersed in consequence. 
Ham turned, as is generally allowed, towards Africai 
where Egypt was afterwards called by his name, and 
by that of his son Mtsraim. Shem remained in 
the w6st6rn parts of Asia, and spread from thence 
over Europe. This opinion is founded on the very^ 
string traces of the Persian language which yet se- 
main in the Celtic and all European tongues, not. 

[ w ] 

excepting Greek and Latin ; though the modem 
Persian, with which I compare them, is itself de« 
rived from the Pehlevi, the ancient langus^ of P^r* 
sia, which probably had a much greater affinity with 
the Celtic. Noah says, in the 9th chapter of Gene* 
sis, ^ May God extend Japhet^ and may he inhe- 
rit the tents of Shem." In the 10th chapter it is 
taid, that the islands wer^ peopled by the descendi» 
ants of Japhet. From these circumstances I con-r 
elude that the family of Japhet went eastward 
from Babel, till, coming to the sea, some went over 
it to the islands within sight, which form the East* 
em Archipelago; and others followed the coast 
northwards, till they came to some point from 
whence they could see America* Thither some of 
them went; while others spread themselves west- 
wardy and these people I take to be the barbarians 
of the north, who afterwards over.-ran all Europe^ 
and who were the same as the wandering Tartars^ 
their brethren, now are. Thus the prophecy is fill- 
filled, for Japhet is indeed extended, and at this day 
inhabits the tents of Shem all over Europe. This 
theory seems to jne to derive great force firom tht 
similarity of manners between the wandering tribes 
of the north, the Tartars, and the Americans]^ for 

i 5* ] 

though some nations of America^ from a long resU 
dence in one place^ have acquired a degree of ci vilt« 
Mtion^ yet there b always a tradition of their having 
been in a wild state. It is reasonable to suppose th« 
descendants of Japhet^ in constantly travelling about, 
would lose all the knowledge they bad gained firom 
Noah^ except such as was absolutely necet»aiy fiir 
their subsistence. We find the descendants of Shcm 
alone, who remained nearly stationary^ and thi 
Egyptians and Chinese who settled soon after they 
left Babel, had leisure to cultivate the seiencts 
before the elements of them were lost. From ttiy 
Ignorance of the Chinese language, I am at a lota 
to determine whether the inhabitants of Cbiaa ass 
descended from Shem or Japhet ; the positioo of. th# 
country would incline one to believe tbo lattSTi 
though their manners, so unlike their Tartar n^^u 
boon, seem to contradtA it 3 yet this obje&ioa m^ 
be done away, by supposing them to settle imme* 
diately after the dispersion, whiqh appears pmbaUe 
£x>m their reckoning the cycle of sixty ywrs frD«|:4 
period so remote as MTf B. C, whiqh answera aK« 
9&]y to the building of Babel. Their laQgunge 
consists entirely of monosyllables, whicb^ with. (tbi|ir 

kuQWA dislike of innovation in every thiogf uialpM 

f ft5 ] 

tDe to think that it m^y perhaps differ less thao axsf 
other from the origiaal Ijuguage^ or at least firoqi 
that of Noah." 

. ^^ Wb laugh at Erostratus §oj( setting fire to the 
temple of Diaoa at £pbe8U99 that hU name might be 
lemembered; but however ridiculoi|s and £x>Iish hU 
ambition might be> ^t was the same which h^s 
-always influenced mi ai^noyed mankind, £vw w> 
cariy as an hundred years after the deI^ge» we ha^rp 
a great instance of it recordec}^ in all men's joining 
ia building the tower of Babel^ ^ to make themselves 
a name.' Since that time to what end has Ak^p^ 
dcTf and all the other conquerors of anuquity> waded 
through bloody if not to be talked d^ and that their 
names might be remembered? Even amongst those 
we call barbarians^ the warrior rushes headlong into 
daogefj that the song of the Jidsd may rise in his 
praise^ and his deeds of valoui^ be remembered. Nor 
is the mischief of this passion confined to blood* 
ibed« Men will overturn all the principles of the 
world, and publish the most extravagant do£lrines^ 
merely to be talked of. It is surely impossible that 
Hume could believe his own system; he was only 
foracioys of literary fame. The S4me might be mi 

[ 56 ] 

of Voltaire and his associates. It was the vanity bf 
advancing something new^ and making a revolution 
in the opinions of men^ which prompted them in 
their writings. The passion was given to excite us 
to good deeds; but when men have no disposition 
to distinguish themselves by what its good^ they fix 
on some splendid evil, which will be the most uni^ 
versally felt^ and consequently the most talked of. 
To this cause must in a great measure be attributed 
the variety of opinions which exist in the world on 
every subjeft; some of them so very absurd that it 
is impossible to suppose their authors could believe 
in. them. Perhaps he thinks himself the cleverest 
man who can persuade the world to believe the most 
improbable fifiion," 

What I have here transcribed^ and much -thdl 
is irrecoverably lost; the acquisitions in scietice 
which I have endeavoured to trace out^ as wdl as 
the virtues, to which I should in vain endeavour' t6 
do justice, were cotnprised in the short period of a 
life not yet extended beyond the twenty-first yeafj 
and many of those years were spent without a hoirie^ 
and without a library, and under the preesuit ' 6f 

[ 57 1 

affliAions^ which, however iH^bly supported, ^taught 
even youth and innocence to mourn.' Such was 
the life, which, when compared with the standard 
of perfection at which she aimed, appeared in her 
own eyes to call for the refleiStions that conclude 
the little book I have just transcribed, and which 
are dat,ed January 1, 1708. 

^^ Bet NO now arrived at what is called years of 
discretion, and looking back on my past life with 
shame and confusion, when I recollect the many 
advantages I have had, and the bad use I have made 
of them, the hours I have squandered, and the op- 
portunities of improvement I have negle£ied 5 — when 
I imagine what with those advantages I ought to be, 
and find myself what I am;— I am resolved to en- 
deavour to be more careful for the future, if the 
future be granted me ; to try to make amends for 
past negligence, by employing every moment I can 
command to some good purpose ; to endeavour to 
acquire ail the little knowledge thai human nature 
is capable of on earth, but to let the word of God 
be my chief study, and all others subservient to it; 
to model myself, as far as I am able, according to 
the Gospel of CnaisT ; to be content while my trial 

[ 58 ] 

lasts^ and when it is finished to rejoice^ trusting m 
the merits of my Redeemer. I have written the^ 
resolutions to stand as a witness against me^ in case 
I should be inclined to forget them, and to return to 
my former indolence and thoughtlessness^ becanse I 
have found the inutility of mental 
May God grant me strength to keep them!' 

In the summer of the year 1 79S, Afiss 
with her family at Conway, from whence the two 
9iext letters were written to Miss H— « 

^' Conway y May 26^ 1 708» . 

^^ We are all very well and very comfortable nowu 
remembering our friends only as we ougbt^ and aal 
trust we always shalU I wish I were sure thai yq[^ 

* Of tliis paper Mrs. S — says, '< I firmly beliete tlua 
prayer was accepted, for I do sot recollect any iflstanoe in 
which she could justly be accused of either indolence o# 
thoughdessncss, except on the subje^ of her health ; on th^it 
pmnt she trusted too much to the strength of a natural 
good constitution ; and had so litde confidence in hwMa 
skill, that she negledlcd such means in the commenceBieBtcf 
W lastillnessj as in all probability would have^iemored it*** 

C w ] . 

fltre equally comfortable^ but •knowing your contented 
disposition, I am tnolined'to think you are, I think 
I am eont€fnt; and yetUw be* save. I Bhould like to 
have you here^ and explore with yoa all the dark 
Winding passagcfi and broken stair* cases of this 
beautiful Oastle.* There is one of the towers that 
would make- the nicest dwelling in the world. I am 
sure you would wish to inhabit it. It stands on 4 
rock overhanging the river^ which is more properljr 
«n arm of the sea^ and commands the finest view 
•imaginable. It consists of three cir^^ular ropms one 
oyer the other; in the second of which tb^r^if i^ 
^mi-circular niche with a beautiful roof of groined 
ardies^ suj^orted by pillars, with a seat all rounds 
jsapable of containiog five or six people, and three 
windows looking on the rivter and its beautiful banks. 
{po aU this fairy castle, there is nothing wanting but 
the possibility of getting at it, for the timbers are 
entirely gone, and I pine in vain to get into the 
little niche. It certainly would be very snug, filled 
«xa&ly as one would wish; but any place would do, 
,so filled, therefore let us be content at the foot of 
,the Tower, 

^' I am glad our d^r Miss fi— is so happy at her 
Tower, We have so quick conMnunication with 

[ «o ] 

hcTp that it scarcely seems as if we were separated. 
Perhaps we are preparing by degrees for a more 
lasting separation from all our friends; but our fate 
is still uncertain. We must make the best of the 
present^ and let the future shift for itself. I never 
felt such hot weather in May as we have here ; but 
the air is uncommonly soft ^s well as clear^ and in 
the evenings we take delightful walks^ and find great 
use for our sketch-books. There is another ciiw 
cumstance that would please you^ we meet with % 
great variety of beautiful plants ; particularly^ the 
little burnet rose grows in tufts on the mountains, 
in the marshes^ and almost every where. We find 
bere^ indeed^ every thing we wish for, except a few 
old firiends. Our books are not arrived, but thalt 
is no misfortune, for I never find time to tead* 
You will wonder what we do, and really I cannot' 
very well tell, except rambling about to take views, 
and finishing them a little when we return home. 
I did flatter myself that here I should find time for* 
every thing, but cither I am a very bad contriver^ or 
time does not stand still on any spot of the earth* 
If any one can catch him, I think it must be you, 
and I am certain you will make the best use of his 

^^Omwajfy July 10, 1799^ 
^' We are gro^n such vagrants that it. is not 
without many fruitless efforts that I sit down to 
write, even to you. I believe you will not doubt 
that my inclination makes that, a lighter task than 
if I were addressing myself to any one else; but I 
am afraid, if we stay much longer amongst these 
delightful scenes^ I shall grow completely and irre* 
Goverably idle. It is not so with you^ I dare say; 
you are studying hard, And oijoying peace, quiet- 
ness, and leisure, in your comfortable little retreat. 
I believe I should envy you, if I were not where I 
am. I often recoiled how we all groaned together 
at Bath, at the idea of the unpleasant summer we 
expedod to pass in our difierent lots; and comparing 
that idea with the happiness we a£iually enjoy, (of 
which from our want of confidence we were so 
particularly undeserving,) I determine never again to 
be ansious about atty thing; persuaded that all 
events are much better disposed than if / had the 
management of them. You will think T am begin- 
ning to philosophise, because there is nothing at 
present to disturb me ; but indeed I expe& a very 
great misfortune. I will not think of it beforehand. 

[ «« ] 


hot complain if ii happen ; this is all my philosophy 
can do. 

'^ And now you must mount your old frigid 
Pegasus^ and go with me to the t6p of Snowdonta 
adore the rising sun. If you think your Bteod wiU 
not be tired, you may as well meet me at CaernAr«». 
von at five o'clock in the evening of the seventh 'ct 
last month* You know, present, past, and futttle^ 
are all one to your nine friends. Meet m^tkcK 
at Caernarvon, go with me- into the Castle, ram«' 
ble with me through dark passages without end or^ 
number, many more than I had time to go into^ 
for they are galleries leading all round the walk, and- 
Tound every tower, lighted only by small'Sliu, in » 
wall twelve feet thick, for shooting arrows; so that 
many hundred soldiers might be employed m do-- 
fending this castle, and be visible neither without^ 
Bor within. Ascend with me the Eagle Tower, 
and count if you can the number of steps, fiir in^. 
deed I forgot to reckon, and havuig no book o£ 
travels from which to extract a journal, I cannot ttH 
you. Hear Mr. C — , the barber, our dcrrom,. 
very learnedly refute the opinion of Mr. Pennaa^ 
that Edward II. was born in a little daik shabby 
room in the tower, and establish his own,«-tbat that- 

t «* ) 

tfvent certttnly todc fdace txi the ki^ circular rooni 
ooihe first floor; acknowledging at the same time 
that the nume might poMtbly retire occasionally 
with the chiM int6 Mr. Pennant^ room. Come oat 
mto another Mltte room^ and if you chuse to be re«» 
memberedamdngBtlbols, write your name upon tb« 
planks which tti]! remain. Hear a kmg account 
from Mr. O^f of a boy b«ng let down to the bbt-^' 
1MB of one of the towera, where there is water^ to 
feieh up a dog tthat had been thrown there^ and 
disoo^ring an iron grAte, through which he saw M 
s u hta rraneous passage never yet explored; and hnity 
away firom the Castle, wishing to spend days an4 
weeks in extfuining it^ 

^^ Jufy 1£.— -I find myself so idle, and my travelt 
ao much tnors tedjbus^ in the recital than in thef 
perfbrmance, tiiat if I go on giving you a particulat' 
account I shall never finish. I will therefore tc\t 
you the rest of oor adventures as briefly as possible.' 
Quitting the castle we took a. most delightful walk' 
beside the river on which it stands, to observe the 
9tttside of the buiMibg, which, as beauty is but^ 
comparative^ I being of the se&. of the Conwayites, 
do i!iot admire. We returned to the Inn; — I sup^= 
^e yoniP are aware that we means my Mother, Mrs* 

[ 6* ] 

6. S— i and I, wh6 set out together from Conwftjrat 
nine the same morning;— well; we returned to the 
Inn^ and eat an enormous supper. You know tra«- 
vellers always tell you how much they eat, but I in 
compassion will spare you the descri^ion of every 
dish^ and how much was paid for it^ because I have 
forgotten bpth; however this supper is not men- 
tioned in vain, for indeed it was not eaten m vun. 
As soon as we had accomplished it, we set off (about 
eleven at night) for the foot of Snowdon^ and tra*' 
veiled eight miles through a fine mountainous coun- 
try by moonlight. Before one we arrived at a little 
hut where the guide lives, and after having him 
called up and loaded with a basket of bread and 
, milk, and a tin box for specimens, we b^an our 
march at a quarter past one. The clouds were ga-^ 
thering over the mountains, and threatening u's with- 
either.darkness or rain. We however escaped both^ 
|ind were only amused with every variety they eouU 
give the landscape, by hiding, or half obscuring the 
moon, and by blotting out, now one mountain^' and 
now another, from our view; till about twoo'clock^ ' 
when the dawn began to appear, they covered the 
moon, and we saw her no more. We proceeded by 
a very easy ascent over boggy groucd till balf-pait 

i 65 y 

tvlFO^ when coming suddenly to the top of the first 
range of hills^ and meeting with a violent wind 
which blew from the quarter whete the sun was to 


risej (for we ascended the mountain on the souths 
west side,) Mrs. G. S— was frightened^ and seeing 
a very steep ascent before her^ said she would sit 
down and wait for our return. My Mother said 
she would stay with her^ and I proposed our all 
going back together ; but my Mother very kindly 
insisted on my proceeding. We Aerefore divided 
provisions^ the ladies returned to the hut fro^ which 
we had set out^ and I went on with the guide, who 
could not speak a word of English. We steered 
our course more towards the south^ and toiled up 
several mountains^ in some parts covered with loose 
stones which had fallen from the broken summits^ 
but in general overgrown with different sorts of 
moss, and a kind of short grass^ mixed with im- 
mense quantities of the Gallitimpunllum. I picked 
up a few other plants, but on. the whole was disap-^ 
pointed in the botanical way, as I found very little 
that I had not before met with on the mountains 
in this neighbourhood^ however, this is not the 
time of the year for mountain curiosities. I went 
tn as £ut as I could^ without stopping, except nov^ 


[ 66 ] 

and then for a momeat to look down on the xnouii?: 

tains under my feet^ as clouds passed over theipj 

thinking each summit I saw before me was the last^ 

and unable to gain any information from the guide 

to satisfy my impatience ; for I wished to be at the 

top before sun-rise^ and pink clouds began to appear 

over the steep T was climbing. I also knew that 

the Xiadies would be very impatient for my.Fetum^ 

nor was I without anxiety on their account^ as I wu 

not sure that they would find their way back to the 

hut. These ideas occupied my mind all the way upf 

and if that deceitful but comforting lady-— ^iipe^ 

had not <:ontinually presented to me the range of 

hills I was ascending as the last step in ambition's 

ladder^ I am not sure that^ with all my eagerness to 

get to the top^ I should not have turned back. I 

was debating this point very earnestly with myself 

in ascending an almost perpendicular green slope^ 

when on a sudden I saw at my feet an immense 

chasm^ all in darkness^ and of a depth I cannot 

guess^ certainly not less than an hundred feet; .1 

should suppose much more. It answers in some 

respe&s to the idea I have formed of the crater of a 

volcano^ but evidently is not that^ as there is no 

mark of fire^ the rock being composed, as it is ia 

t «r ] 

general throughout this country^ of a sort of slate; 
Nor does the (hountain appear to have been thrown 
dbwn, but the pit to have sunk in ; which must pror 
bably have been occasioned by subterranean waters^ 
as there is water at the bottom of the pit^ and 
the mountain is full of springs. You think you are 
how at the top, but you are mistaken. I am stand- 
ing indeed at ^ the top of the abyss^ but with a hi^h 
tocky peak rising on each side of me, and descend- 
ing very near perpendicularly into the lake at the 
bottom. I have taken a rough sketch of one of 
these peaks, with the lake in the deepest shadow ^ 
I am turning over my paper, (which the wind ren« 
ders very difficult,) in order to draw another 5 — I look 
up, and see the upper part illuminated by a beauti- 
ful rose-coloured light, while the opposite part still 
casts a dark shade over its base, and conceals the sun 
itsjflf from my view. If I were ready to jump into 
the|>it with delight at first seeing it, my ecstacy now 
was still greater. Tde guide seemed quite delighted 
to see me so much pleased, and took care in descend- 
ing to lead me to the edge of every precipice which 
he had not done in going up. I however presently 
recolleded that I was in a great hurry to get back, 
and set off along the brink of the cavity for the 

F 3 

i 66 2 

highest peak^ where I arrived at a quarter past four, 
and saw a view of which it is impossible to form aa 
idea firom description. For many miles around it 
was composed of tops of mountains^ of all the various 
forms that can be imagined; some appeared swim- 
ming in an ocean of vapour; on others the cloucb lay' 
like a cap of snow^ appearing as soft as down. They 
were all far below Snowdon^ and I was enjoying {he 
finest blue sky^ and the purest air I ever breathed; 
The whole prosped: was bounded by the sea^ except 
to the east and south-east^ and the greatest paft of 
the land in those points was blotted out by clondf. 
The sun, however, rose so far towards the nbHh- 
east as to be still hanging over the sea. I took a 


sketch of a small part of the mountains, with soifie* 
of the little lakes which appear at (heir feet; itA 
down, for the first time, on a circle of stones which 
is built on the top of the hill, and made great havoc 
in the bread and milk, in which accomplishment 
the guide equalled, if not surpassed me; and at hdlf- 
past four, almost frozen, I began to descend. My 
anxiety about my friends increased as I came near 
the spot where I had left them ; I made all possible 
haste; and found them safe in the hut at ten minutes 
past six« It certainly would have been pleasanter 

[ 69 } 

to have bad mojre timei, and some one to enjoy the 
e^p^ition with mq^^but I s^m delighted that I jiave 
been^ i^nd would not for .anything give up the re- 
collfi£tioa of the sublime scene* We got into tJ^p 
carriage imm^iately, and went four miles further; t;9: 
l^reakfau at a Uttje village^ from w,hehce we walked 
tp; the Devil>Bndg^<f which is fi^e ^almost beyoi\d 
ijnagination j returned to Caeniaivon to dipnery 
M^aiked aboc^t the|re in the evening, and went to bed 
after tfiirtyftiine hours of alipiost constant ej^rcjse* 
4iter this I think you will not take the trouble to 
enquire after nay health} it must be tolerably good. 
I intended writing a very short letter^ but recoiled 
ing you would perhaps like sopie news from Spoww 
dpfi^ I have been led on till I fe^r your patience is 
^bausted, tl^qugh Lhave amppressed at least half pf 

■ I. : •* , I 


Miss IJ— hi^d jsept . the. preceding letter to - our 


mutual friend Mrs.De Luc: and Miss S— heard 
t})}at it bad bc^n meptioqied. with approbation by aa 
illustrious lady, to whom Mrs. De Luc had read it* 
This circumstaq(:e will lexplaia the next letter. 

[ 70 ] 

** Shirley i March 95, 1 799. 

''^ Unworthy as you are of a line from mjr 
pen^ 1 should be very glad of a few from your*s, and 
therefore must condescend to ask for them; trusting 
to the insipidity of all I have to say, that my letter 
win not be put in the trumpet of fame, and blown 
to the four quarters of the world ; for ill as you use 
your friends, I believe you have still sufEctent iCb 
gard for a certain M — H — , not to publish thatsht 
is the most treacherous of human beings;' and that 
she as much deserves to be taken up for" treason as 
any of his Majesty's disloyal subje£ts. Now having 
vented my anger, I have nothing more to say, but 
that I should be very glad to hear from you. * '"■ ■■ — 

^ I have got — I will qot tell you what; a licdi^- 
a very little book* always in my pocket;' Mr. GU^- 
has given it me. It is two books bound in one, and 
contains a vast deal of wisdom ; but you are a blak^ 
and shall know no more. > 

<' If you want to consult the Syriac translation ef 
the New Testament upon any particular passage, let 
me know. Mr. C — has a very fine one, printed 
in Hebrew characters, and the language is so very 

^ Sententix RaUimonim. 

. » 

C n 3 

like the Hebrew^ aoKl where it differs from that^ so 
like the Arabic^ that | can read it very welU - 

''May 1,1109. 
' '' I suppose ydu ebnelude that I am ^ afraid of 

being tired with your answers;' but pfailosopheri 

flometimes draw fklsie' conclusions^ and this is one of 

them.' I cannot entet into all the reasons for hot 

writing sooner. It is oiough that here I am^ — while 

Mercury is vainly trying to get the better of Apollo^ 

•—here I am writing to -you, instead of watching their 

eohfltd. It is true I have no very great merit in 

my forbearance, because I cannot see through the 

veil with which they have chosen to conceal them* 

•elves ; therefore be not too vain in fancying I pre** 

fier your company to theirs. I imagine you are at 

this moment visiting your neighbour, Dr/^Herschell, 

and I desire you will oommunicate to me in this 

nedier world all thtt idfernlation yeu €olle£l in your 

noSumal, as well as diurnal, peregrinations to the 

Iwavens. I shall envy,-— no Iwill not say envy 

you, but I should liketo go with you, as I should 

have liked to have had you with me in some of my 

late anittsemeatSi tndi asaeeii^ the British Mu« 

[ 7« ] 

seuQij pictures and statues without end^ and ^oitte 
very curious pieces of mecbaivsm; ,' . . 

'^ I have just received an invitation to go and look 
at the Gods through a good telescope. — ^AU in vainl 
I fancy we have been humbugged. I have seen the 
sun as flat as a trencher;,' but. not a, bit of Mercury. 
D9 tell me^ if it ought to be s^en to-day.; afid if l% 
oyght, what is the matter with our eye^^. . , - ;; .,j. ... 
, '^ In town 1 1 have been reading tY^p yo]uniff( qf 
Sully's Memoirs^ with which I apa jdelighted^ and 
which I m^n to fipish the next tinie I can i&eet 
with it. Since I came back. I have been .readixific, 
Cicero's letters to Atticus. I cannot say that I:iui*. 
dersfand every part of thcm^ on account of ^niajpyf 
allusions to circumstanceic of theiimesj bu|t..jWitI| 
many parts I amipuch pleased.^' - 

In the summer of the year ' 1 7999 ^t%. 8^—4 and 
all her family i^emoved to IreUndj. whete Captaia 
S— 's regiment was still qaart^r^. During .-thjeir 
residence in that hospitable country, they rece^vied 
much kind attention, which they always mentioa 
with the warmest expressions pf gratitude.,; ;= ^lie 
following elegant poem^ which was addfemd- tP 

[ 73 3 

Mrs. S— 9 when the family lefu^alHtore in 1800^ to 
reside at Patterdde^ .Vill shew the impression their 
charaders and condu& had made on the amiable 
and inge'nious writer. » 

Soft o'er the vale of Baflitore 
The gale of peace was wont to blow; . 
. Till discord raised her direful horn, 

And fill'd the shades \^th sounds of woe« 

The blood-stain'd earth, the warlike b^ds» 
Our trembling natives saw with dread ; 

Dejeded labour left her toil. 

And summers blithe enjoyments fled. 

But see, th' avenging sword is sheath'd^ 
And mercy's voice is heard at last.-— 

How sweet beside the winter's fire. 
To ponder on the perils past! 

Ah! think not yet your trials o'er; 

From yonder mountain's hollow side 
The fierce Banditti issue forth^ 

When darkness spreads her curtain wide* 

With murd'rous arms and haggard eyes. 

The social joys away they fright; 
Sad expedlatioo clouds the day. 

And sleep forsakes the feariid ni^t. 

C 7* 3 

Now martial troops protect the rale. 
At distance prowl the ruffian band*-— 

Ohf Confidence! thou dearer guard* 
Why hast thou left this luckless land^ 

We droop and mourn o'er many a joy* 
O'er many a friend to dust consigned ;— 

But ey'ry comfort is not fled,-^ 
Behold another friend we find* 

LO) Juliet comes to grace the plain* 
And friendship claims the precious prize; 

She grants the claimy nor does her heart 
The children of the vale despise. 

Though polish'd life, with every cbamiy 
To her its brilliant scenes display 'd; 

Though formed to ornament a court* 
She deigns to dignify the shade. 

But shades more worthy of the guest 
From us this precious prize require; 

Guiltless of blood, with quiet blest* 
Where truth's own bard attunes his lyre.* 

Where Clarkson for the helpless pleads* 
Where nature's charms majestic rise; 

And broad Ulswater's beauteous lake 

Gives back the mountains, woods* and ikicii» 

* Thomas Wilkinson. 

C 73 J 

TherCf Juliet, may thy lovely maids 
Their pencil's wond'rous art employ; 

While each acqtiirement gives the poVr 
To increase their tender parent's joy. 

Unknown to dissipated minds 

The joys their gentle bosoms know ; 

Tis theirs to turn the classic page, 
'Tis theirs to melt at others' woe* 

And there, releas'd from war's alarms, 
May thy lov'd lord delighted ipve; 

And lay the radiant scarf aside. 

Dear pledge of Juliet's anxious love! 

1 ■ 

• « 

Ifike the bright dames of ancient days» 

She fram'd the web of crimson stain | 
Tq grace her hero's form, ori)ear 
. Her hero wounded from the plain* 

And still diqieiising kindness round. 
The happy household shall unite; 

While fit>m amid surroooding bow'rs 
Their virtues beam with native lights 

And in their joys we still shall py. 
While fancy views their dear retreat; 

Though Juliet's eye, and Juliet's smile. 
No more our ^^adden'd sight shall meet* 

[ 76 3 

What though the tendn* tear shall starts 

And soft regret the sigh shall send ; 
Yet shall our conscious hearts exult 

In the rich gift of such a friend 1* 

I will here insert some produftions, of which I 
cannot exa6lly ascertain the date^ but which were 
certainly written before the removal to Ireland* The 
imitation of Ossian was probably written at a much 
earlier period; as her partiality for the Highland 
Bard was not quite so great after she became ac- 
quainted with the learned languages as it had beea 
in her childhood; though she never believed that, 
the work was entirely modern^ and was very desi- 
rous to read the Poems published by Dr.^ Smkh in 
the original language, but the want of a gramxiaar 
prevented her making much progress. When she 
was in Ireland, she endeavoured tocolIe£k traditional 
accounts of the Heroes of Morven and Erin, and 
always mentioned with pleasure any circumstancea 
which appeared to prove the antiquity of the poems* 

* The author of these lines^ a Quaker, is now puUishing 
by 8\ibscription, « Poems, by Mary Leadbeatefy (late 
Shackleton^ } of Ballitore, including a translationof MaflKsns^ 
13th -Eneid.'* 

C 77 1 

Imitation. of Ossian. 

'* It 18 the voice of woe,*' I cried, as our bark 
was tossing on the foaming wave ; *^ it is the voice 
of woe^ O Finan ; I hear it at times in the blast ; it 
shrieks from yonder rock* Now the storm is some- 
what abated, let us take our oars, and try to reach 
the shore. Perhaps there is some one, more wretch- 
ed than we, to whom we may bring comfort; and 
will not that be comfort to ourselves, son of Derog?" 
' We can bring no comfort there, O Luno,' an- 
swered Finan, * 'tis the land of departed spirits, t 
see the dim forms of our fathers, sailing in their 
grey robes of mist across the mountains. They 
beckon us to approach, they shriek our welcomej 
for full well they know the ocean soon will bear us 
to that land of darkness ; we shall never more be- 
hold our lov'd, our lonely Kilda. Our wives look 
out from the rocks, the fair Malvina, and the raven- 
hair'd Edilda; they think they see a distant sail, joy 
sparkles in their eyes; it was but a passing cloud. 
They look silent and mournful on each other, they 
slowly return to their children. O Luno, let us 
hot rashly urge our fate; it is rapture to think yet a 
moment on Kilda.'' * Does Fman fear to die? ' I 

[ 78 ] 

said; ^ Finan^ the bravest among heroes; he who 
was first to climb the rock, and seek the sea-fowPtf 
nest; he who was foremost in the fight; does he 
weep and tremble^ when summoned to the hatl of 
his fathers? When the valiant Derog advances to 
welcome his champion, shall he meet the groveling 
soul of a little man ?' Finan spoke not, he raised 
his oar; I took up mine, we rowed till we reached 


the shore. The voice of mourning had ceased; there 
was no sound from the cave of the rock. We waxv* 
dered on the beach to seek the habitations ot men. 
In the cave of the rock sate a woman, beautiful at 
the dawn of the morning to the benighted traveller^ 
but her form wan wasted with sorrow; she was like 
the young rose of the mountain which the deer has 
torn up by the roots; it is still lovely, but its strength- 
has failed. Her heaJ^was leaning on her hand^ she 
saw not our approach. On her knees lay a young 
child, at her feet a youth like the sons of heroes. 
We gazed a moment in silence; at length I spake. 
* Daughter of sorrow, tell thy grief; we too have 
known misfortune, and learnt to pity the distressed.' 
She raised her head, she gazed with wild surprise. 
** Sons of the Ocean,'* she replied, ** I have no 
sorrow now. My child is dead, and I shdl follow 

[ r» 3 

blip* -Ere the- dark dews of evening fall^ I shall 
Bieet thee^ my child^ in the airy hall of my fathers." 
Her head sunk again oh her hand in silence. ^ Yet 
tell us, l!9ive]y mourner,' I said, < tell us, what land 
i&this,?r,for.we come from far, tossed by the tempest 
ffooi thCfJonely Kilda/ ^^ Strangers,*' she replied, 
^< have ye never heard of Rona ? Rona, whose fam^ 
spread wide as the light of day. Her sons were 
generous and brave, her fields were fruitful in com, 
her hills were covered with sheep. Then was the 
stranger welcome to the feast. Five families dwelt 
on our plMns; their chief was my father, the valiant 
Cormac, whose presence was like sun-shihe to his 
guests. Oft have ) heard the voice of joy resound 
iu his hall, and seen the beam of gratitude in the 
eye of the ship-wrecked mariner. But now famine 
has wasted our island, and there is nothing left to 
give the weary traveller." * Surely,' I cried, * the 
hanfi o£ the liberal should ever be filled with plenty; 
happiness should dwell in his habitation, and his 
children should never taste of sorrow. Or if the tear 
hang on their cheek for a moment, the hand of pity 
should be near to wipe it away, and to restore the 
smile of gladness. ^ Then why is the daughter of 
Cormac left desolate? Why does the child of the. 

C 80 ] 

generous suffer want?' ^' Because she chose riche* 
rather than virtue,'* replied the lovely mourner; 
'^ yet has she not been unpitied; but that pity^ like 
yon coloured bow which makes the dark clbud seem 
still darker, made her folly more apparent, and tore 
her heart with anguish. Oh! son of other lands^ I 
will tell thee my sad tale, though the remembrance' 
be painful to my soul. Then wilt thou ^ee that the 
daughter of Cormac has not suffered unjustly. ^^-Ti^^a 
youths sought the hand of Evirallin, only daughtei^ 
of the generous Cormac. Dermod was rich^fbr his 
house was well stored with corn, three cows gave 
him their milk, and twenty sheep grazed for him oii 
the mountain. The store of Mordred was sbiall/ 
yet was he richer than Dermod, for he had a noble 
soul. But I chose Dermod with his flocks and herds; 
for 1 said, the wife of Dermod never can knoV want; 
pleasure will always attend her call, she has only to 
wish, and be satisfied. T'was when the eve wai 
lengthened out almost to meet the dawn^ and the 
sun set far to the north, that I became the dpbase of 
Dermod. 'J'he soul of Mordred was sad.- " T hie 
crop which then looked green, was blasted ehS: 'the 
harvest; it gave us not three months food; In the 
sjpring the sea« weed failed oti the coastythe catdc 

died of hunger* Then was Dermod equalled with 
the poorestf Our neighbours died around us. We 
divided the last scanty meal; then wandered different 
wiys to stek for herbs and rootSj^ or rather^ not to 
see each other die. As I mused on the top of a 
rocky Mordred came up with a Kttk cake. ^ Eat,* 
he criedy ' Evirallin; preserve thy life and that of 
thy child. While yet there was corny I was sparing; 
I have still enough for many days. Perhaps : ere 
that is gone^ some friendly bark may bring us aid." 
The tear of gratitude was on my cheeky but I could 
not thank the generous Mordred. Scarce had I 
tasted the foody when Dermod came with bas|ef he 
tore the cake from my bandy ere I could give him 
hal^ and eagerly devoured it« . Mordredy seized with 
ragCy struck him to the groundy and he fell headlong 
£rom the rock; the dark wave received himy and he 
rose no more. We both stood speechless for a 
momenty then Mordred rushed forward to follow 
him, but I seized his arm. '^ O Mordredy" I cried, 
<< leave me not desolate. There is none lefi alive but 
IheCy and mcy and this little babe. We all shall 
peridi soony but let not me be the last. Leave me not 
Eke the wounded lea-mewy whom her companione 
have abvidonedy to lit complainiog on the desert 

I 82 ] 

rock !" — The heart of Mordred was moved; he walked 
slow and silent away. Each day did he bring me 
a little cake. When I begged him to eat, he would 
not; he said, ^ I have eaten before/ This day he 
came before the accustomed time^ he brought this 
little cake. ' Take it^' he cried^ ^ Evirallin; it is the 
last. I came sooner than usual, for 1 felt that I could 
not live. I have never tasted food since the day that 
I killed Dermod.' He sunk down at my feet. Ik 
vain I tried to restore him; the noble spirit- fledl 
Then did I pour out my grief; I mourned my own 
hard fate, and I gave his praise to the winds. The 
son of the rock repeated it^ there was none else M 
hear. But I remembered my child^ whicb lay ott 
the matted sea-weed. I returned— it was dead 1 
Then were my cares at an end; I sat down tawait 
for death, which will, ere long, relieve me* Yet^ 
stranger> ere I go, receive this little cake ; 'tis all the 
wretched Evirallin has to give. I could not eat it{ 
'twere like eating the flesh of Mordred I ''-—She 
ceased; she was faint ; two hours I supported her 
-head. Finau wept over Mordred. At length! felt 
-her hand; it was cold and lifeless. We made a 
grave beneath tlie hanging rock. We laid the fiuir 
Evirallin ig the narrow house^ and Mordred and ihk 

t S3 ] 

child beside her.. We reared these grey stones. »at 
their heads^ to. mark the spot to future wapderers ot 
the ocean. The last, ray of the getting .siin Igok'd 
On the new-made grave !'* «... , 

I do not know wheii the following refle6tioil8 
were written^ but the idea was probably suc^est^ 
by the German poem quoted • in a letter to* Mh$ 
H-"> dited April 7, Hd^.-^ee jfage 2Q. . ;, 

'^ Rbasom and Revelation^ the tw6 lights which 
theALMtOHTY has given us to dispel the darknesj; 
of ignorance^ and guide us to the knowledge of trut6^ 
may be aptly eompared to the two lights He has 
placed to dispel the darkness of the natural world^ 
And lead us to an acquaint^mce with the visible 
objects that surrdund us* 

^^ As the sun is the grand instrumont by which 
light is dispensed to the whole earthy and so resplen-* 
jdent that all other lights may be accounted dark- 
ness in comparison) — so revelation is the instrument 
by wbicb knowledge is communicated^ and so ti^uch 
does it exceed all other evidence in strength^ that it 
alone deserves the name of knowledge. 

6 2 


^^ A^ the moon shines with lustre borrowed from 
the sun/ and witnesses his existence even in his 
absence, by refleAing a light which she could not 
bave received but froin him;^-60 reason shines with 
the reflefted lustre of revelation^ and witnesses its 
truth, even where, at first sight, it seems never to 
have existed, by presenting ideas which the mind 
of man could not have formed, and which therefore 
must have been originally received from revelation. 

'^ As' the sun diffuses not only light, but ▼ivifying 
heat, and may properly be called the animating 
principle of nature; — so revelation diflfuses not merely 
speculative knowledge, but that which leads to ever- 
lasting life, and m^ be said to re- animate the soul. 

'^ The moon ^ves no heat ; neither will reason 
ever lead us to life etemaL 

^' The sun shints in vain for whatever is not ex« 
posed to its light and heat ; and revelation has been 
given in vsun fbr those who will not recdvcf its in«* 

^^ As the moon is not annihilated by the presence 
of the sun, but only lost in the superior splendour 
of his beams;-^8o reason is not contradided by re- 
velation, but lost in the superior bhtse of evidence. 

[ 85 ] 

^' The sun is too daszling for our unassisted ^yet 
to behold: and revelation is stoo slgrioua for oqt 
weak faculties fully to comprehend* . 

^' The light of the moon is fiiint and dwious; an) 
the light of reason is but an uncertain fpxi^ 

^^ The scriptures plainly point to the analogy W 
tween the natural and spiritual worlds^ in number- 

- • • • . » 

less instances ; as^ when the moon is called * tM 
fiuthful witness in heaven;' CaaiST it called ^ the 
tun of righteousness^' * the light of the worlds' &c/' 

TrmulauJ firm a Girmm Pmm fy MMtiifn* 

«f When In the Jast iatot U^ ot^aaog 

A simling form glides softly b]r» 
A gentle Mgh its bosom beaviogy 

While thduio oakn gnyvr^ost liei 
Itistheq^^-tlqrfirieiidi . 
Which whi ipcrs ■ ^' AM tly^axes shall eyl'^ 

^ When in the mUd moon's peaoelbl twilight 
Forebo£ng tfaoogiits aM dreams arise. 
And at the sotemo bDomf midmi^ 
Punt faiiy scenes before thine, ejffs; 
The poplars give a mstling soQad|-«» 
It is my qarit hovers round* 

[ 86 3 


' «< Wffefl, deq) in fields of ancient storjr» 
: Thou hang'st enraptured o'er the page 

That gives and takes the meed of glory; 
L.:.. : Fed'$tllhou a b^eath that fans thy rage? 

Aod does ^ trembling torch bom pale?— ^ 

My spirit drinks .with thine the tale* 

■ • « Hear^st thou, when wlver stars lare shining, 

:> [ 'A sQuxid as EdPs harp ditdne* 

^ Mow the wild wipd fuU chords combininj^ ' ' . - : 

»- -Now softly inunn'ringi—^* Ever thine P* ,,, 

Then careless sleep, — to guard tliy peace. 

My watchful spirit ne*cr shall cease.'* 

■ « • 
* ■ 

Observations in Norih-lFaleSy p^obablj/ 
written at Conway. 

'^Snowdon^ Penmaa-Mawr^ and . iifdeed all 
the mountaipg I have examined in Qbernarvbnshire. 
are composed of Schislus^ the laming of which, 
where they are found in a sial6 of rest, apptiir ge« 
nerally to rise towards the ^uth*'Weat. . iDrsoaoie of 
the rocks the^e lamioss are intersefted at right angles 
by veins of gypsum; The moimtains are p^ishing 
fast, owing to the position of the strata. In winter 
the rain lodges in the interseftion^ of the stone, and 
by its expansive force in freezing blows ojOT immense 

[ a7 ] • 

masses; so that the surface of mapy of the mount- 
ains^ particularly of Peuman^jNlawi'^js nothing but a 
confused heap pf lopsp ston^s^of all possible dimen- 
sions. The peaks have disappeared, and arc only 
to be traced by rocks lying confusedly on the tops 
pf mountains, where they evidently must formerly 
have stood ere£);. Grand as this country is, it is but 
the ruin of its former grandeur. , I find no marine 
produi^ions amongst these mountains, aiid indeed 
their rough and shaggy forms place them in the rank 
of primary mountains. Neither have 1 found any 
traces of volcanos. What at first sight might ap- 

* - I ■ ■ 

pear most like one, is the immense pit at the top of 
Snowdon; but the stones are untouched by fire, 
and the cavity seems to have been occasioned by 
water in the heart of the mountain undermining its 
centre; while the peaks, more perfc6i: than any I 
have seen, though covered with ruins, stand round 
staring at each, other, and at the lake newly formed 

at their feet, as if they wondered at lacing exposed 

■ " ■ ■ ■ • 

. to the prying eye of day. Vegetation does not cease 
at the top of Snowdon: several sorts of moss, and 
lichen, a ki^^d of short grass, the gallium pusil" 
lum, and a little thyme, grow even to the summit. 

■» • 

£ 88 ] 

^^'Itisa custom in thU country that all those 
who attend at a funeral give money to the clergy. 
man^ proportionate to their rank and fortune^ and 
that of the deceased. 

'^ On Whit-Monday, all the country people mutt 
be up at three or four o'clock in the morning to 
keep holidayj on pain of being pulled out of bed and 
put in the stocks by their companions, 

*' On - Christmai-Day, prayers aire read in the 
Churches at four in the morning, and six in the 
evening* The church is very handsomely illumi- 
nated; and the people eat gingerbread^ drink^ and 
behave very riotously, even during the service. 

*^ What is the meaning of these customs ?*' 

In her letters to Dr. R— ,* Mrs. S — alludes to 
some refiefiions on the applause of the world, which 
were probably written at a earlier period of Miflri 
S — 's life. ^' I have known some very good poopltf 
mountain in tbeoiy^ and almost all in praAice^ that 
we ought to endeavour to gain the good opinion of 
others. It strikes me so far otherwise^ that I sbouM 

. '. i 

* See Appetklix* 

t «» ] 

think it wrong to stir my fiiiger on purpose to gain 
the good opinion of the wh6l< worfd/ Not that I 
despise it} I consider tbe efteem^tbe wise and 
good as a treasure which I should be j^ toobtun; 
bat to obtain by being r^Hy worthy ofit^ tiotby 
any little fira^ulent arts ezerciiied on purpose to 
catch it. To be better thought of than I deserve^ is 
always a reproach; but the constiousneta of having 
gained that high opinion by appearing in any respeA 
better than I really am^ would be to me as insup- 
portable as that of having forged a bank-note. In 
either case I should have made something pass for 
more than it was worth; I sbouki expeA the fraud 
to be sometime or other discovered; and if notj' I 
could not enjoy what I bad no right to possess^ 
. Perhaps there is nothing more difficult to guard 
againtt than the deiire. of being admired^ but I am 
convinced that it ought never to be the motive for 
the most trifling afiioQb -. We should do rights be* 
cause it is the will of God; if the good opinion ^ 
others follow our good condu^^ we diould receive 
it thankfully, as a valuable p^rt of piir reward; if notj 
we should be content witboul it^f'~— These senti- ^ 
ments are certainly highly chara&eristic of the 
writer, for no biuni^i beiog» as Mrs, S~ observer. 

[ 99 ] 

A cemi^ete Analysis of Homer's OdyiTcj. 

Exm^ from Qiuntus Curdus. 

Extrads from Maurice's History of Indo&taa. 

Extrads from Bruce's Travels. 

Thirteen folio pages, closely written, containing near a 

tixonsand words, written in HelH'ew and FersiCf to 

•bfw the resemblances between those languages. 
A great number of Greek words with their sigoificatUNiL 
A colledtion of Welsh words. 
A coHe^ion of words from Africa^— Mandingo^ Foulahf 

'Zangxy^ &c« 
Explanation of many of the proper names in Scripture. 
A coQedtion of words from the Chinese. 
Explanation of the names of many stars, with their titles 

ID Arabic ; and other papers in that hngnagew 
ExtniAs from Bartholinus, in the Icelaodish language* 
An abstradl of the contents of the Edda, &€• 8cc« 

To account for the trouble which Miss S— tbok 
in colkfling so many words in different languages^ 
and making so many extrads from books, it nlDst 
be recollected that she was often without a homej 
and deprived of the assistance of diftionaries; and 
that the books from which she derived so much 
pleasure and improvement were not her own, and 
perhaps for a short- time only accessible to her. 

After Mrs. S— returned iit>m Ireland^ '■ she resi- 
ded during some months at Patterdale, by the 

C 93 ] 

of Ulswater^ from whence the following little Poem, 
written by Miss S — j was sent by her and her sister, 
with a very elegant Irish Poplin^ to a friend^ whose 
services^ though nother afl*e£tion^ they always greatly 

« Pattirdale^ Dee. 8, 180a 

« Were India's choicest treasures oorSf 
And did we give them all to thee; . 
Yet could not that be call'd a gift. 
Which would not set the debtors free. 

* For more than worlds to thee we owe. 
Who still, hast prov'd our kiiidest fikadi 
Then add ode &vour to the past* 
To take the trifle we am send. 

« To purchase pleasures for oursehret 

Thy bounteous hand a store snpply'd; 
The little part we thus employ 

Has bought us $uare than all beside.'* 

£. S. and C, SJ^ 

From Pattetdale, Elizabeth writes thus to Miss 
H— . 

^ if arch 99, ISOl. 
^^ You have perhaps heard of the little farm pur« 
chased, and the house hired at C— — -> where we 

C 94 ] 

arc to be planted in May. In the tue^ time we 
vegetate in a very beautiful country; but this is not 
the season for enjoying it^ and other enjoyments we 
certainly have none ; but we look forward to the 
land of promise, and flatter ourselves all will be 
better in the next bouse. My Father is still in 

Ireland.* Do you remember, Werter says every 

day he lives amongst the country people he is more 
delighted with Homer, because he finds bis account 
correspond so exaftly with nature? I find it the 
same here. Our neighbours are very little advanced 
beyond the state of civilization described by him, 
and their manners agree surprisingly. I could give 
you many instances of this, and shew you several 
Nestors, if I had the happiness of seeing you here, 
I cannot indeed boast of having met with a He^or. 
What is still more astonishing is, that th^ b^elief in 
ghosts and witches is still in full force. We have 
heard several serious and very recent stories of ghosts 
that have been seen and laid in the neighbourhood 3 
and there is an old Conjuror living close by, who is 
always applied to, and who exerts his power when 

* Mr4 S— went iDto the army in the year 1794^ SOODI 
after the misibrtune whidi deprived hini of Fiercefieldy. and 
he spent several years iq Ireland with his regimeqU ' 

[ M ] 

the butter will not come^ or when any thing is lost | 
besides many others of the same trade, in 'whose 
incantations-the poor people believe a^/^a^^ as firmly 
as they do in the Bible. When I come to witchcraft^ 
you will think it is time for me to leave ofT. I obey^ 
intreating you to be assured of my most sincere 

The circumstance which gave occasion to the 
following reflexions, happened exactly as it is here 

« Patterdak, FcL 1801. 


^ Alone on the pathless steep I wander'd, 
I sought the foaming waterfall ; 
And higjh o'er the torrent's brink I damber^dlf 
Whichlomd and dreadful roar'd beneath. 

*^ At length I came where a winter's streamlet 
Had torn the surface from the earth; 
Its bed was fill'd with dry shelving gravel 
Which slid beneath my hands and feet. 

« The pebbles roll'd latding down the steep slope. 
Then dashM into the dark abyss. 
I followed — there was nought to sire msy 
Nor bushy nor x)ock« nor grus, nor aioss. 

[ 96 ] 


Then did I tranqmlly my life resign $ 
< If 'tis the will of God that here 

< I perishy may that will be done!' but sudden 

Across my mind th* idea flashed— 

* 'Twas not by his command I hither came ; 

< 'Tis If who wickedly have thrown away 

« That life, which He for nobler ends had giv'n.* 
Then, with a deep repentance for my fanlty 
And firm reliance on his mighty pow'r, 
I pray'd to I£m who is, who fills all spacep 

* O LoRDy deliver me! I know Thou canst l' 
Instant I rais'd my eyes, I know not why. 
And saw my Sister stand a few yards off; 

She seem'd to watch me» but she could not help. 
Then, as the busy brain oft sees in sleep, 
I thought she saw me slip into the stream. 
And dash rebounding on from rock to rock. 
Swiftly she ran all down the monntm side 
To meet below my mangled lifeless limbs. 
And tatter'd garments* — ^Life then had value» 
It was worth a struggle, to spare her soul 
That agony. — I pass'd, I know not how, 
'The danger; then look'd up— she was not thercji 
Nor had been! 'Twas perhaps a vision sent 
To save me from destrudion. Shall I then 
Say that God does not heed the £rte of mortals^ 
When not a sparrow fidls without hiH will» 
And when He thus has saVda worm like ne{ 

[ 97 ] 

So when I totter oa the brink of sm. 

May the same mercy save me from the gulph !" 

On some remarkably sweet tones issuing from 
the wood on the fire, during a very severe frost. 


« Fatterdate, Jatluaty l^l. 

*< The storm is past; the raging wind no more. 
Between the mountains rushing, sweeps the vale, 
Dating the UUows of the troubled lake 
High into dr;— 4he snowy fleece lies ti^ck; 
From ev*ry bough, from ev'ry jutting rock 
The crystals hang; — Ihe torrent's roar has ceas'd,-* 
As if that voice which call'd creation forth 
Had said, < Be still!' All nature st^lds aghast, ' 
Suspended by the viewless power of cold. 

<* Heap high the fir^ with wood, and let the bla2e 
With mimic sunshine gild our gloonsy room* 
The ri^mg flame now spreads a chetifcl ray; 
We hover roand» rejoicing in the Imt; 
The stiffened limbc relax, the heart dilates. 
Hark to that sound ! Amid the burning pile 
A voice, as of a silver trumpet, speaks. 

< Children of Taste ! Nature's (enthusiasts! 
Ye, who, with daring pride^ attempt to paint 
These awfbl serenes; is this an offering fit 
To great IJUwater's Genius? Is it thus 
Ye adore ibtt piAores^, the beautiful? 

[ 98 ] 

Is this your homage to the diiead sublime f 

Oft as ye stray where lofty Stybrow tow'rs* 

Or Glencoin opes her ramparts to the lake, . 

Ye view the roots of trees that once have beeO)— • » 

The hypocritic tear in every eye 

Stands tremblings and ye almost curse the man 

Who laid their leafy honours low; — perhaps 

Some sage reflection follows^ on the &te 

Of greatness tumbled from its airy heightr— 

Of youth and beauty lopp'd in early UQom»^- 

Or else on avarice, that fiend who turns 

The woods to gold, the heart to ste^*—- Then home 

Ye hie, and feed the fire with those lov'd trees 

Whose fall ye have deplor'd. For this» be sure 

Our sister Dryads ne'er shall spread their anns 

To screen ye friom the sunmier's noon-tide ray ; 

But e'er the sun ascends his fiery car, 

Banish'd from these sequestered glades, far off 

To scorchmg plains and barren mountains gOf 

Where not a bough shall wave to fan the breezct 

Nor rill shall murmur coolness as it flows. 

Then learn how vain th' excuse — ^ I did np wrong} 

I only shared the gain of him who did." 

I will here insert reflexions on various subjeds 
found amongst Miss S— 's papers^ most of which, I 
believe, were written after her return from Irdand. 


'^ Why are the writiagsof tb^ ^xxci^ntA, generallf 
speakings supertortp those of the n^o^eros? Because 
paper wa9 scarce. Of pQurae they would think 
deeply, and consider their 8ubje£t on evisry f ide^ 
before they would spoil their parchment by writing 
wh^ on reflei^Qn might app^a? pot woftb preserviag^ 
Tht sam« Qau9e^ ^dded to the labour pf transcribing^ 
would prevept copies b^ing laftltipli^^ j^icg^ptof 
what was really yaju^bl?* Tbtip what has cotnt 
down to our tune^ U only; the cream of the writings 
of the ancient$9 skioiined off by the judgment of their 
immediate successorSf and catinot. fairly be <^om* 
pared ivith the general mass of modern literature^*' 

^^ One of the most common subjects of com* 
plaint, among those who wish to shew their wisdom 
by arraigning the whole eeonomy of the univcirse^ i$ 
the ineiquality in the distribntiod of the goodsr of this 
life. It is unfair, say they, that a fool should be 
surrounded with digrtities^ honour;, and affluence^ 
while a wise man |ferha{)8 begs at bis door« This 
is a mistake^ arising, aa false opinions generally 
io, fit>m a too baaty view of the subjed. Let the 
wisdo9i of the one be weighed against the exterior 
trappings of ibf^^other^ atid it will then i^pcar that 

H !2 

C 100 J 

the wise man has by much the greater share of the 
goods even of this life^ wisdom being the most 
valuable gift that God can bestow. It may also 
be proved that he is the happiest. He is of course 
virtuous, for true wisdom is the mother of virtue, 
and his wisdom and virtue will teacb him to be 
contented with whatever lot the will of God may 
ordain for him. This is more than the fool in the 
midst of his wealth can ever attain to. He is 
always pur<iuing some new bauble^ and despising all 
he possesses in comparison with what he wishes to 
obtain ; and though he may riot in what he calls 
pleasure for a time^ he never enjoys that inward 
satisfaction^ that sunshine of the mind^ which alone 
deserves the name of happiness. If^ then, honours, 
disUn£tions^ and riches^ were given exclusively to 
the wise and good^ what would become of the fboI« 
ish and the wicked? They would lose their only 
enjoyment^ and become much more wretched than 
it is possible for ^ wise man to be under any circum* 
stances. At the same time the happiness of the 
wise would not increase in the same proportion as 
that of the fool diminished; because his mind beingr 
fixed on higher objeCls, he would but lightly regard 
iho^ advantages on which the other sets so high a 

C 101 ] 

value. The dog eats xneat^ and delights in all the^ 
dainties of the table; but must the sheep therefore 
complain that it has only grass ? It has the food 
best adapted to its nature. Were the dpg turned 
out to graze^ he would starve/' 

'' The hand of a friend imparts inestimable value, 
to the most trifling token of remembrance; but a 
magnificent present from one unhoed is like golden 
fetters^ which encumber and restrain not the Ie$s for 
being made of costly materials,' 


^^ Humility has been so much recommended^ 
and is indeed so truly a christian virtue^ that some 
people fancy they cannot be too humble. If they 
speak of humility towards God^ they are certainly 
right ; we cannot^ by the utmost exertion of our 
fiiculties^ measure the distance between Him and 
us^ nor prostrate ourselves too low before Him; but 
with r^ard to our fellow-creatures^ I think the case 
is difierent. Though we ought by no means to 
assume too much^ a certain degree of respe& to 
ourselves is necessary to obtain a proportionate de*^ 
gree firom others. Too low an opinion of ourselves 
will also prevent pur undertaking what we are very 

[ 102 ] 

able to accomplish^ and thus prevent the fulfitxnent 
df our duty; for it is our duty td exert the powen 
given us^ to the utmost, for good purposes; and how 
^hall we exert powers which we are too humble- 
minded to suppose we possess? In this particalsTj 
as in all others, we should constantly aim at disco- 
vering the truth. Though our faculties, both in- 
teHedual and corporeal, be absolutely nothing coxfi- 
pared with the Divinity, yet when compared with 
those of other mortals they rise to some relative 
value, and it should be our study to ascertain that 
value, in order that we may employ them to the best 
advantage; always remembering that it is better to 
fix it rather below than above the irHth. 

^' It is very SurpHsing that praise should excite 
vanity; for if what is said of us be true; it is no more 
than we knew before, and cannot raise us in out 
own esteem ; if it be false> it is surely a most humi- 
liating relledion, that we are only admired because 
we are not known, and that a closer inspeAion 
would draw forth censure, instead of commendation. 
Praise can hurt only those who have not formed a 
decided opinion of themselves, and who are wxUing, 
on the testimony of others, to rank tbebiselvei 

[ 103 ] ^ 

higher than their merits warranty in the scale of 

^^Plbasurb is arose near which there ever 
grows the thorn of evil. It is wisdom's work so 
carefully to cull the rose^ as to avoid the thom^ and 
let its rich perfume exhale to heaven^ in grateful 
adoration of Him who gave the rose to blow/' 

^^ As the sun breaking forth in wintisr^ so is joy 
in the season of affli&ion. As a shower in the midst 
of summer^ so are the salutary drops of sorrow min- 
gled in our cup of pleasure." 

^^ A sum of happiness sufficient to supply our 
reasonable desires for a long time is sometimes con- 
densed into a little space^ as light is concentrated 
in the flash. Such moments are given to enable us 
to guess at the joys of heaven.*' 

" In vain do we attempt to fix our thoughts oh 
heaven; the vanities of this world rise like a cloud 
of dust before the efpes of the travellerj and obscure^ 
if not totally conceal^ the beautiful and boundless 
protpeA of the glorious country towards which we 
are tending." 

[ 104 ] 

^^ If it were the business of man to make a reli- 
gion for himself^ the Deist^ the Theophilanthropbty 
the Stoic^ or even the Epicurean, might be approved j 
but this is not the case. We are to believe what 
Gqd has taught uSj and to do what He has com- 
manded. All other s}'stems are but the reo^ies of 
mortals, and not religion,'^ 

^^The christian life may be compared to a mag- 
nificent column, whose summit always points to 
heaven* The innocent and therefore r^a/ pleasurea 
of this world are the ornaments on the pedestal; 
very beautiful, and highly to be enjoyed when the 
eye is near, but which should not too long or too 
frequently detain us from that just distance^ where 
we can contemplate the whole column, and where 
the ornaments on its base disappear/' 

^^ Thb cause of all sin is a deficiency in our love 
of God. . If we really loved Him above all thingg^ 
we should not be too strongly attached to terrestrial 
obje&s, and should with ple^y^ure relinquish them 
all to please him. Unfortunately, while we continue 
on earth, our minds are so much more strongly 
^eded by the perceptions of the senses thfm by 

[ 105 ] 

abstrad ideas, that it requires a continual exertion 

• *'.t .. 

to keep up even the remembrance of the invisible 

^^ When I hear of a great and good charader 
falling into someheinous crinie^ Icannothelpcrying^ 
' LoRD^ what am I^ that I should be exempt? O 
preserve me from temptation^ or how shall I standi 
when so many^ much my superiors^ have fallen?' 

'^Sublimity is something beyond the little 
pircle of our comprehension^ and whatever withia 
that circle approaches the circumference, approaches 
the sublime. The pleasure occasioned by the idea 
of sublimity seems to me to consist in the exertion 
of the mind, which, whenviolenl^ overpowers weak 
minds, as violent exercise does weak bodies, but 
makes strong ones feel and rejoice in their own 
energy, Mr. Barke certainly understood and felt 
the sublime; but I think he would have defined it 
better, if, instead of sayjng it is occasioned by ter- 
ror, he had said, it k something incomprehensible 
to the mind of man, something which it struggles 
^o take in, but cannot; which exerts all its powers, 
yet baffles them. The instances he brings of it 


I 106 1 

Ivoald in general agree much better with this idei 
tfian with that of terror; as^ an extent of space of 
which the eye sees not the bounds^ a degree oFdark- 
Mss which conceals them; every thing which oc* 
eauons indistinSness and difficulty. The - satae 
perpendicular height give« a more sublime idea to i 
person cm the summit than at the base^ because 
the eye cannot so easily measure the height/* 

^Mmagination^ like the setting sun, casts a 
glowing lustre over the prospe£l, and lends to eViery 
oljeA an enchanting brilliancy of colouring ; but 
when reason takes the place of imagination^ and the 
son sinks behind the mountain^ all fade alike into 
the night of disappointment/' 

'^ Study is to the mind what exercise is io tb^ 
body ; neither can be adlive aud vigorous without 
proper exertion. Therefore if the acquisition of 
knowledge were not an end worthy, to be ^uned> 
still study would be valuable on its own acoomit^ 
as tending to strengthen the mind: just as a walk 
is beneficial to our health, though we have no par^ 
tiailar objeft in view. And certainly, for that mOst 
humiliating mental disorder^ the wandering df the 

[ 107 ) 

thoagbts^ there is no remedy so efficAei6Us as-iti* 
tense study/' 

^^ An hour well spent condemns a life. When 
we refled: on the sum of improvement and delight 
gained in that single hour^ how do the multitude of 
hours already past rise up and say^ what good ha^ 


marked us ? Would'st thou kiiow the true worth of 
time, employ one hmir** 

*^ To read a great deal would be a sure prevent 
live of much writings because almost every ont 
might find all he has to say, already written/' 

<^ A woman must have uncommon sweetness ct 
dispositioh and manners to be forgiven for posses- 
sing superior talents and acquirements/' 

^^ As by weighing a guinea in water, we prom 
whether it be really gold, so by weighing our own 
faculties and attainments with those of the world in 
general, we may ascertain their real worth. What* 
ever bulk they have gained by the swelling of vanity^ 
so much weight will they lose on &e trial. No otut 
can be convinced how difficult it is lo know' hini« 

[ 108 ] 

self^ without observing the erroneous opinions which 
others entertain of tliemselves ; but having seen how 
far vanity will lead them^ we must suspe& our-* 

'^ It is not learning that is disliked in women^ 
but the ignorance and vanity which generally ac- 
company it. A woman's learning is like the fine 
clothes of an upstart^ who is anxious to exhibit to 
all the world the riches so unexpe^edly acquired. 
The learning of a man^ on the contrary^ is like he- 
reditary rank^ which having grown up with him^ 
and being in a manner interwoven with his nature^ 
be is almost unconscious of possessing it. The 
reason of this difference is the scarcity of the com- 
modity amongst females^ which makes every one 
who possesses a little^ fancy herself a prodigy. As 
the sum total increases, we may reasonably hope 
that each will become able to bear her share with t 
better grace.*' 

^* Why do so many men return coxcombs from 
their travels ? Because they set out fools. If a 
tnan take with him even a moderate share of com* 
mon sense^ and ajdesire of improvemeotj he mil 

[ 109 3 

findHravelling the best introduction to an acquaint- 
duce with himself^ and of course the best correAor 
oJF vanity; for if we knew ourselves, of what could 
any of us be vain? Vanity is the fruit of Ignorance^ 
which thrives most in subterranean places, where 
the air of heaven, and the light of the sun, never 
reach it." 

^^ Hope without foundation is an ignis fatuus^ 
and what foundation can we have for any hope, but 
that of heaven?'* 

f^ Great adions are so oflen performed from 
little motives of vanity, self-complacency, and the 
like, that I am more apt to think highly of the per- 
son whom I observe checking a reply to a petulant 
speech, or even submitting to the judgment of 
another in stirring the fire, than of one who gives 
away thousands/' 

^^ To be good and disagreeable is high treason 
against virtue/' 

^^ Our endeavours t6 reach perfection are like 
those of Sysiphus to roll the stone up the hill ; we 

[ 110 ] 

have a constant tendency downwards^ TirUeh we 
mast exert all our efforts to counteract*'' 

^^ A great genius can render clear and intelligible 
any subje£i: within the compass of human knpw« 
ledge; therefore what Is called a deep book^ (too 
deep to be understood^) we may generally conclude 
to be the produce of a shallow understanding/' 

*^ Wfi were placed in this world to learn to be 
happy; that is^ so to regulate and employ our pas- 
sions as to make them produ6live of happiness ; if 
we do not learn this lesson^ but on the contrary^ 
make them produ6tivc of misery, by cultivating and 
encouraging the malevolent, instead of the' bene- 
volent afle£lions, heaven itself cannot make us 
happy. For a being kccustomed to indulge eavy^ 
hatred, and malice, against superior excellence^ 
Ivould be in a state of the most agonisizing torture if 
placed in the midst of perfection, where every objeft 
calculated to inspire love and admiration, veneration 
and gratitude, in a well-disposed mind, would excite 
the opposite painful emotions in his.'' 

. •** A happy day is worth enjoying, it ex«irci«esdie 
Boul fot heavm. The heart that oerer \mitm ^ 

£ »ii ] 

pleasur^j shuts up^ grows stiff, and incapable of 
enjoyment How then shall it enter the realms of 
bliss? A cold heart can receive no pleasure evem 
there. Happiness is the support of virtue; thqr 
should always travel together^ and they generally do 
so; when the heart expands to receive the latter,- her 
compatiion enters of course. In some situationSf if 
I ever do rights it is mechanicallyj or in compliance 
with the dediiAions of reasqq ; in others^ it is ffxiqa 
an inward seiitiment of goodness, from the bve fif 
GoD^ and admiration of the beauty of virtue. I 
believe it is impossible to be wicked and happy at 
the same time/' 

^^ When we think of the various niiseries of the 
worlds it seeips as if we ought to mourn continually 
for our fellow-frreatures, and that it is only for want 
of fjp^ipg that we Indulge in joy for a single mo« 
inent. But when we consider all these apparent 
evils as dispensations of Provjdence, tending to 
corre& the corruption of our nature^ and to fit us for 
the enjoyment of eternal happiness, we can not 
only look with calmness on the misfortunes of 
otben^ but receive thofle*a{ipQinted for ourselvea 

[ 112 J 

'^ HA.PPINESS is a very common plant^ a native 
of every soil; yet is some skill required in gathering 
it } for many poisonous weeds look like it^ and de« 
ceive the unwary to their ruin/* 

*^ Courage has heen extolled as the first of 
human virtues; ag^un^ it has been considered as the 
mere mechanical effeft of blood and spirits. Whence 
arise these opposite opinions? To answer this quest- 
ion^ we must trace fear to its origin^ u e. the cradle. 
We are all naturally cowards^ as we are gluttons^ &€» 
The first passions of children are^ a desire of fbodj 
fear^ when any thing approaches which they fimcy 
may hurt them; and anger^ when their inclinations 
arc thwarted. These instin As are wisely implanledj 
for the purpose of self-preservation, not only in the 
human species, but in the whole animal oreatim. 
By these we are and must be guided^ tiil resbson 
gain sufficient strength to rule them* In some 
this never happens, and they are children all their 
lives; or rather they degrade themselves to brutes^ 
by not using their reason for the purpose ibr which 
it was given. Since, then, fear is natural^ courage 
does not consist in its absence, but in its .praper 
regulation by reason; to fear only when there is 


opiimns; iSaipa^ i\6iik{ bjo^i hodiljr.fiaifii^tbjfto^: ft 
Qelasciiof fbdc^^diH-s diaulrtte Qoiisune.-dr.jrtdtcid0(of 
the wi>r}d>- &jei ' it lis'the iCfariitian labd^ M^ 
l»Mng'Jbk»4raiiutejiiiiibeaf^ finii'lnd/ielulaeiaf 

fehr * m^itbis Avbridy/aAd (Mhoisiithtiefm llh]Brai% 
heroii OthM^iiM^tpoBieM'degimdFiocicEagefm^ 
etem fcif - Mls'tife tthMT^ loiimpiMebiiDii Iklid wotlS^ 
M 'be kdmu-ed;>Md>Mrfefballed7tf;dbliit .ivfaiidi 

er'^hamej idl • ortgiii)ill)f ' i tbe' >ofiBpriDg fa£ Fe^, . MS 
sWrlak-fro^n^e^ietiiftemiK triAinvhliOvnD t)re;bfahdU% 
because DieiTMtlMl tittildfiy >liiiVMig^(Mim>flr^^ 
down by only weak and partial reasons^ will always 
recur when those reasons faiK Sruch courage is not 
a virtue^ though itU^as bein^ftaikdkdrlite of reason^ 
upon whatever principles^ it is more respe£table ihan 
cowAtdi^, li fisithe^biindttttoii tdff trdigioa ialbne^ 
vAidi i(jefth» cdttfftge 4o>4hef'Mg|l<Bt'iyir(ile|J ai^ 
the saiB^ 'tititc l)iidfes;'itu0f^rla>ii 4s:l>etiig-4ul unU 
i^m&l ipififioipto ap^Uabfe to «U titcAmstamts.^' • . 

f » 

•■ • .^«/.. '■.. .. I 11/ . ■,..'. '.I 

C 11* 1 

uhcommdii talents should be employed in something 
which might interest the public ; particularly in 
translations from the German. He could scarcely 
credit what I said of the facility with which she 
translated fiom that very difficult .language; and 
taking down Gesner's works^ which was the only 
German book in my possession J he turned to one 
of the Idylls^ and requested me to ai(k' her to trans* 
late it. I believe she had never read it^ and I know 
she had no. di&ionary ; but I told her that Mr. 
Sotheby had conuBdided the poem lughly^ and I 
wished she woiild make me understand it» The 
next morning she brought me the following. 

^^ A Picture of the Dchigem 

*^ The Jdtarble towei^ were already deep buried 
l>^eath the floods and dark waves already njU 
over the mountain tops; one lofty summit .stood 
alone above the waters. Its sides resounded widi 
the mingled cries of wretches who attempted to 
ascend, and whom death followed on the dashing 
.wave*. . Here, a crag^ rent from the mountaiq^ fell 
with its burthen of helpless mortals into the loapn* 

ing flood ; there^ the wild stream of a torrent hurried 
down the son, as he was dragging up his dying &<^ 
ther; or the despairing mother with the load of her 
children. Only the highest summit now remained 
above the deluge. 

'^ Semin^ a noble youths to whom the most noble 
of maidens had sworn eternal love, had saved his 
beloved Semira on the summit. All else were dead. 
They stood alone in the howling storm; the waves 
dash'd over them. Above them growFd the thun- 
der, and beneath roar'd the furious ocean. Darkness 
reign'd around^ save when the lightning shew'd 
the horrid scene. Each cloud's dark brow threat- 
ened vengeance, and each wave roll'd on a thousand 
corses; it roll'd on with fury, seeking for more de- 
stru&ion. — Semira pressed her beloved to her trem- 
bling heart; tears ran with the rain-drops down her 
faded cheeks. She spoke with a faltering voice.— 

^' There is no more safety, O my beloved ! my 
Semin ! Death surrounds us. O destruAion ! O 
misery! Death comes every moment nearer. Which 
of those waves, oh, which will overwhelm us? Hold 
me, hold me in thy trembling arms, O my beloved ! 
Soon, soon shall I, abalt thou, be no xnore; $wal« 

t 9 

t 116 J 

l6Wed u^ itl the universal destniftidil. Uow^^^O 
fSbi>iy6hder it roHs. How dreadful! It lolb yet 
fs^Arecj Hltitmned b^ the Tightxiifig. V[ovir,^>^^JO God! 
dat Htd^et" "sht ^tSAy and sunk oti &feinxfi» tG$ 
trembling arm surrounded his fainting^ loine, tta 
Voice bi^atheid jfi*om his quiverhig lips. He saw 
dfestf if^i6ti 116 l6hger ; he saw otily t!fae 'fidntin; 
Sefhira TeSnlhg Qtk his hcfsotn, ^nd felt inbne tfian 
die dfirlt of i^Siih. Now he krss'd her ^ale 'cfae^ 
w^tWii^'th^'chilMilgraln; he pressM heir dcnper t» 
hid Ist^isty and sdi, ^ $eihira> bdbved Senrim^ 
wate! 'Oh, yfet tetuth to this scene bf horror^ that 
tWile fey^itt^ay look on ine once more y that diy 
j5&il€ ir][^s faftji' otfcte ttioVb tell- me that thou lov^fttliie 
eVen ihtfesCth. Yet cMcemore, (dit^ the flbod o'«r- 
wheltii lis both!* He said, ind Ae kWoke^ She 
looked oh hitn With an eye fuITof tetidftt'tiead lUid 
kiekpressible sdrrovlr,— then on th^ Widd-sterie of de^- 
sotatioh. ^«0 Gob; 6UV judge!** shfe cried, *^ b 
there no prbteftibri, is ihert tto pity teiras? ^ ho# 

the' Wdves dash, h6^ the thutider 'tOatis ^i^ i^ f 

f. ■ ■ ■ . » 

tVlhat tfeffoYS dtincJtince the unpfopiciatcdjtfl^jiMi^t*'^ 
O'^God! oiir yeirs flowed oh iti ihnoceHa^ ^bafa, 
the most virtubus of youths! — Wbe, 'TKno^is we!* 
They are all gone ; they i^o adom'^ xny life witfi 

the flowers of joy are all gonel-^Anct t)viu wfaq 
gayest xne life-rrO agonising «ight ! the ^^y^ tQFf 
ibee from x^y side. Yet oace di4sX tjioj^ ri.s^ t^^ 
Jiead 9fid thine a^^s; thw wpuld'st ^2|ye bkst Vfj^ 
and wert overwhelmed. Q they are ail gpz^f^-^jp^ 
yet — O Semin^ Semii) ; beside thee the )onely d^j^r 
l^ted world would be tp me a Paradise. Qmi: yoi^j^ 
years flow'd on ininiiocence. Oh^ is t^ere po s^ 
vatijoa^ no mercy ? Yet why does my affli<^ tv^^i 
complain ? Q God, forgive 1 We dif • WJi^f if 
the innocence of man in thy sight ?^' Theyo^)^ 
supported hia l^elpved as s^^ trembled in the f t^rq?* 
and said, ^ Y^> my beloved, life is t^nif^'4 &Mn 
the earth; th^ voice of the dyii\g i\q ipaore j# b^4 
amidst the rearing of the e^ean. Q S^mm, WJ 
dearest Semira, the next mofn^t will be our la^it i 
Yes, they am gone, the hopes of tfaia life are aH 
gone; every pleasing protpeft that«fe imagiaed in 
the enraptured hours of our lovt, is vanished. We 
die; — but O let us not await the universal doom 
like those who have no hope; and O my beloved, 
what is the longest, the hapjMest life? A dew-drop 
that hangs from the jutting rock, and before the 
morning sun, falls into the sea. — Raise up thy 
drooping spiiit^-^Beyond this life is peace and eter- 

[ 118 ] 

nity. Let us not tremble now^ as we pass over. 
Embrace me^ and so let us await our destiny. Soon 
my Semira^ soon shall our souls rise above this de* 
solation; full of feelings of inexpressible happiness 
shall they arise. O God, hope fills my soul with 
courage. Yes^ Semira^ let us lift up bur hands to 
God. Shall a mortal adjust his balance ? He who 
breath'd into us the breath of life; He sends death 
to the righteousj and to the unrighteous ; but wdl 
is it for him who hath walked in the path of virtae. 
We pray not for life^ righteous Judge ! Take us 
firom hence; but oh, invigorate thehope^ the sweet 
hope of inexpressible happiness, which death shall 
no more disturb. — Then roll, ye thunders^ and rage, 
thou ocean ; dash over us, ye wavesi Praised be 
the righteous Judge; praised! Let this be the last 
thought of our soul in the dying body/ — Counn 
and joy animated the face of Semira. She rais'd 
her hands in the storm, and said, '^ Yes^ I feel the 
delightful, the glorious hope 1 Pnuse the Lord, O 
my tongue ; weep tears of joy, my eyes, till death 
shall close ye. A heaven filPd with happiness awaits 
us. Ye are all gone before, ye beloved! We cosne* 
Soon, O soon we shall again behold you I They 
stand before his throne^ the Righteous One's; ^e has 

gathered them leather from hk judgment. Roar» • 
ye thundeirs ; rage, destnidioa; ye are hymns of 
praUe to his righteousness. Roll oyer us^ ye waves« 
See^ my beloved!— -Embrace me— yonder it comes; 
death comes on yon dark wave* Embrace me, Se-^ 
min ; leave me not. O already the flood uplifts me 
from the earth.''— ' I embrace the! Semira/ said 
the youth, 'I embrace thee! O death, thou art wel« 
come* Weare prepared. Praised be the Eternal 
Just One!'— The next wave found than lock'd ia 
each other's arms: the succeeding feond them notl'^ 

Mr. Sotheby was extremely pleased with thb 
translation, and his encouragement and kind assist- 
ance led me to engage my beloved friend in a work, 
which employed much of her time and attention, 
and in which she took particular pleasure; till .her 
last fatal illness put an ehd to her pursuits, and to 
all our earthly hopes in regard to her. The work 
to which I allude, is a Translation of Letters and 
Memoirs relating to Mr. and Mrs. Klopstock. The 
interest which was awakened by Mrs. KJopstock'a 
letters, lately published in the correqiondence of 
Mr« Richardson, led ne to suppose thatautheutiq iQ« 

fbi^atioii'witB^l^rdilo fha«aini«ble wMMiivMuld. 
be wi^n tedeivefd by Ui« public; aiftt thtf kindtfMirf. 
tlie ^tidPable Df. if umssen^ of Aliooa^^ ^fen* * hat 
be^fi tb^ kitimdt^ Mettd of Kiopistoek^ g«{ipKcd «ie 
\^b many liettenr and otb«ir w6rk5 in ptost Md' 
vMe, wbicfr Klis^ S-^ trsrnsfated, a«x4 wMchUnft 
|A*epans4 fef Ae- press- ; thotigb some* of the oiMil«r 
sctipli t^Hfi whffcfc I tvas fevmtrrf by* Dr. • MdiM*- 
sk&A, ditiv^t(3b late, t will bereitisert^m^exMiai^ 
fhim Mti^s- S-^^'s ]mtts, which were sent to ntb^y^idi' 
diAferem pattis rf tbiff litlfe worit; the nftaternds'ibr 
which were received by me, and forwarded to her 
at different times. 

•«' MV Mother has, I hope, told ycni, ttey fletfMf 
fnend, that Mr. Sotheby's book arri\red thedtr^^ 
fore she left hoilie, which was asr soon as t eiemld'dii 
tny good with it. My Mother and I weK so- Miii- 
^able together, that I did not atl^pt 16 (i&^ 
filing except tt»is1ating the Kttle Odt tb BisdttMr 
one night aftei: shU was gone to bad. I UbiStjaim 
hive t cleat w^ek between her goittg and vh^ SiiMi4 
emnhg, and that will be soffidciit to ShM ^ 

[ 121 ] 

want. Bat I ought to tell you what 1 have got, 
that you may explain your wiahe^siiort fuily.^— «— -• 

I fhdil gp' OB' with the^ 
/liil my Sister's ifeturny and then' B^all wait your 
ordera to send what you. ehuse« I caonot conclude 
vithout tbanking yoa moat heartily for the employ- 
ment. I am 80 delighted witb fClopatock, that I 
feet very glad of an excuse tO'giyeupmy whole 
time and. thoughts to him. As ta the Di^ionaryj^ I 
am sorry to have troubled Mr. Sotbehyj for 1 h^ve 
not yet found any use for it. The English .ofteii 
nms.^ naturally in the same course with the Ger** 
mad, thiil I have nothing to do but to write it down« 
Perhaps you will be kind enough to mention any 
thing you dislike ; then if it be Kbpstock's fiault, 
you must be content | if mine^ it shall be correAed 
mth tbmkfolnesa.'' 

* ^^ November 25. ^ 

. ^^ That you may not susped mc of arrogance 19 
saying that I made no use of the Dj&ionary, 1 must 
tell you that the difficulty of Klopstock's Odes (for 
difficult many of them certainly are) does not consist 
in hard words, but in the wid^ range of ideasj and 
the depth of thought^ which be h^ expressed in 

[ 122 ] 

very concise language; of course^ often bordering oa 
obscurity, but such obscurity as no diftionary hat 
power to dissipate. On th6 contrary, in trmslating 
the prose, I have several times had occasion to coa-^ 
5ult it for names of things in common uae^ which 
never occur in poetry, and it has not alwaya afibrdcd 
the information I wanted. There are some words 
for which I am still at a loss, which I send in Ger« 
man, in hopes that Miss H— can explain them* If 
you imagine me making rapid progress, you are to* 
tally mistaken. Since my sisters and B— * came 
home, my perfeft stillness is at an end ; and my 
brans being of that kind which requires the aid of 
outward composure, it is not without difficulty that 
I can now translate the prose, and the poetry I do 
not think of attempting. The present sheet is all I 
have translated since their return, though I havestiO 
some left of what I had done before. I fear it will 
be so long before all our materials are coIIeAed, 
that the subjeA will be forgotten in the world. 
Never, I intreat you, think of thanking me; but be 
assured that if I can do any thing to amuse yon^ 
whether it be of any further use, or not, the pleasure 
of doing so is to me an ample reward.'* 

* Third son of Mrs. S— . 

{ 1«3 ] 

^* December 2t^ 
^^ Last night arrived your parcel^-^your little 
parcel of great treasures. The letters between Klop« 
stock and his wife are highly interesting to those 
who know and love them as we do; and many of 
the letters of their friends written after her death 
will, I am sure, delight you. — ^ 

' r— You put a dash under 

warm bed-chamber, as if you thought we could not 
give you one ; it is therefore my duty to tell you 
that it is the warmest and best thing we have; and 
that if it were possible to transport you hither, we 
should not despair of making you comfortable, even 
in the depth of winter; nor of hearing you admire 
our mountains every time the sun shone. In bSi^ 
their present colouring is so rich> and the small ele-i 
vation of the sun above the horizon b so &vourable 
to the lights and shadows, that when a gleam does 
dart across the valley, it is, in a painter's eye, more 
beautiful than in summer. The mountains in the 
back-ground are covered with snow, but we have 
only a little sprinkling on the top of our highest 
neighbour. I hope too, you would not here be so 
often ^ sick at heart' ,as you are at Bath, and al* 
ways must be, till you learn, what you never will 

C 224 ] 

learn, to care for nobody but yourself. We cx- 
pecled MUs. H— would have some inftiience in 
keeping you quiet, by making you happy at hoiM | 
but it seems even her power is not sufficient. Give 
my kind love to her. . L — is at home for the holi- 
days. He and B — are very grateful for you? kind 
remembrance. As to your own chiUren, I oeed 
not waste paper in telling ^*ou how much they love 



*t March 99, 1 a04. 
*^ A small box will be dispatched to^morrow^ con* 
taining a translation of all the prose in Mr. Sotheby's 
)x>ok, &c, I fear you will find some GermoM suD 
sticking to the translation^ which I have-not been 
able to rub off.-^— I have added some of my Sunday 
work, for your private amusement. You are so wdl 
acquainted with the subjeA^ and have the power of 
consulting so many books^ that you will probably 
know I am mistaken in many instances; iind'yoa 
will highly oblige me by telling me so. Where I 
may be right, it is often no more than a lucky giiess, 
and guesses must sometimes prove erroneous.— At 
the bottom of the box you will find a few transpa- 

r 3125 ] 

rencies done hy K — and me fot yjomr sfaewwbok.f 
T-^ ^ends her duty. If she duret, I believe H 
woiiM her love.t 

^* April \6. 
'^ Your gratitude to me^ dearest friend^ is like 
T.^*8 dutif to yoii^ rejected because you owe none. 
The einplo3riii^Bt has been very deii^tful to mc. I 
could not have got through the winter without some- 
thing to engage my thoughts, to fix my attention } 
and I could hardly have found any thing that would 
do this more agreeably than the Klopstocks : yet I 
should have wanted a sufficient motive for spending 
so mudi time on them, had not you supplied one in 
the pleasure of doing any thing fox you. You have 
provided both the subjed and the motive for adion; 
and thusonthisy as on all other occasions, Iain highly 

■ ^ ■ 

* At Patterdale and C ■■ > JMiss S-— > and her sisters 
found much employment for the pencil^ and I am inpossessioft 
of a beautiful set of transparencies, from scenes in that country^ 
which prove how well they employed it«. Elizabeth diseovtf- 
ed a method of clearing the lights widi wax, instead of oil ot 
twnishy which I think answers perfedly well* 

"f llbefidthfid seivant mentioned by Mrs* S^i^: set Ap^ 

[ 126 ] 

indebted to you. I have now sent all that was want- 
ing of the little volume^ except some of the letten 
of their friends^ which seemed to throw no parti- 
cular light on the subje£kj and are only interesUng 
as they shew how much the Klopstocks were be^ 
Joyed. If you find this packet more incorred . than 
tbcuformer, do not think that I am tired of the 
work; I was only very much hurried to get all done 
in time for my Mother's box. Mr. Satchels speedi 
was never touched till within the last two hours. 
Of course I was obliged to send the foul copy un- 
read; but it is the fafts only that you want^ and those 
you have got; no matter in what language, if you 
can but read it. AH you desired me to do, is, I think, 
now sent. I do niot wonder you are disappointed in 
Klopstock's prose: it seemed to me in general duIL 
His wife, I think, writes with more ease. I thought 
it was best to give you every things and leave you to 
weed for yourself. I have accordingly been as 
faithful as I could. You must reconcile yourself to 
Fanny. I rather think that Klopstock was more in 
love with her than even with your favourite Meta; at 
least the odes which relate to her, appear to me to be 
the finest. His second wife was a blessing sent by 
heaven, to make him endure existence for the. good 

t 1« ] 

of the hoinan nee. Do not tUmeham for baviilg 
been fortunate enou^^ at very^ different periods iof 
his life^ to meet with three such wonfiMn. In trlitb^ 
he is so great a favourite of mine, that t would 
gladly excuse him at any rate. 

>^ I never read Peters on Job^ nor any thing about 
the Hd>rew language, except the book of Dr. Ken* 
nicotics which yon lent me, and Looth's Fraeledions* 
Parkhurst has been my only gddey but I fimcy he is 
a very good one." 

> I afterwards recrived from Dr«Jy&nnssenand Mis; 
JQopstockother letters and papers/ which delayed our 
intended publication. Some of these were translaied 
by Miss &— , but others did not artive till she was 
looill to attend tcb them. 1 . 

As a specimen of Miss S^u translations from 
the Hebrew Bible, I insert Jonah'S' prayer, and the 
last chapter of Hahbakkuk. . I do not presume to 
form any judgment .with r^ard to these traasia* 
tiona; but they were shewn to a gentleman who is 
..well acquainted with the language, and who was 
mpested to give his> opinkm of tbem. He said that 
ftbe andwr bad c^taialjr an exftidrcHiiaiy knowledge 

of Hebrew; that he thought him rather too ffm tm 
a biblical translator^ but that he shewed great ac* 
qtiatinftance jouith 'the language^ as well .as Ji refined 
ta^te^ and that -many of his conjeftures were cdmv 

nently happy. This opioion rwassfonned vxitmfy 

froRi ' a critical egcominatton of the woric, without 
any knowledge of diis author; whose acquaiiltaniSA 
mth the language iwould certainly have appeared 
much :more eitrabirdinary^ had thu ^Gentlemtt 
known that these translations, andinany otherB-firooi 
the same sacred book, were the work of a Young 
Lady who never received any instru£lion with regard 
to the Hebrew Janguage from any pexBon whatever. 
She had' lio idea x)f ever offering them to .Uie;piriiKi^ 
and it is now done. principally to shew with wbttfc 
attention she pursued this most interesting of bD 
studies, and how well she adhered to the resolution 
•he (had fomied, to let the Word of^Goo be. Jier 
cM^fstudy^ and. all others subservient to it.. Sir 
itrantiated some chapters in Genesis^ the wholefaaok 
of Job^ many of the Psalms, 'Some parts of .'the 
'Prot^hels, &c. She«pcnt some .time with me iw dn 
7ear& .]r8d2 and 1803, when she broii^^nmeiiNr 
'tcanslation of Job, atidrmsany observatiorisri 
eilt parts < of the Old Testapisnt:. >Wd ha* -ji 

oonversation on such subjedj, from which I always 
derived information as well as delight* She had 
shewn me her translation q{ the eleventh chapter of 
Genesis, in the year 1797j when she was only twenty 
years old ; and as it differs considerably from that 
in the English Bible^ I requested a friend to shew 
it to Mrs. Carter^ who said that the idea wAs new 
to her, but she thought the wofda might bear that 
interpretation. I was afterwards informed that Sit 
William Jones had given the same interpretatioii to 
that chapter. I do not know whether it is men- 
tioned in the works of that great man^ from which 
Miss S— - afterwards derived much information^ and 
of which she always spoke with enthusiastic admi- 
ration ; but they were not then published. 

^ c. ii« V. 2. 

«< I call on Jehovah from my priioo, 
And He will hear me; 
From the womb of the grave I cry. 
Thou beaieit mj voice. 


t 130 ] 

Thou has cast me into wide waters in the depth of the we^ 

And the floods surround me ; 

All thy dashing and thy rolling waves 

Pass over me* 

And I said I am expelled 

From before thine eyes; 

that I might once more behold 
Thy holy temple! 

The waters on every side threaten my life. 

The deep surrounds me ; 

Sea-weed is the ^binding of my head 

1 am g(»ng down to the clefts of the mount^q^. 
The earth has shut her bars 

Behind me for ever. 

But thou wilt raise my soul from corruption, 

Jehovah, my God! 

In the fading away of my life, 

I think upon Jehovah ; 

And my prayer shall come unto The© 

In thy holy temple. 

They who serve false gods 

Forsake the fountain of mercy ; 

But I with the voice of praise 

Will sacrifice to Thee. 

What I have vowed I will perform, 

Salvation is Jehovah's!" 

* The binding of the head was a prepatitioo lor bndak 

1 rai ] 

^^ The tWbifirst chapters^ ^f HabakkUk contain d 
jn'ophecy of theihVfcion bfjudea by the Chaldeans, 
and of the vengeance which God will take on them 
for the evHs they infli^ on- his pebplcj, whom He 
promises He will riot utterly fbfsake ; ^^ for the earth 
shall be filled with th^ "knowledge of the glory of the 
LoRD^ as the waters •cover lii^'ifesl;*' referring to 
the eleventh ' cha{)te^ of Isataby- which contains a 
clear prediftion of the Messiah. The third chapter 
is an ode, apparently intended to be sung by two 
persons, or two companies. No I*, representing 
the Prophet foretelling what is to happen to the 
Jews, No, II. some one recounting the great 
works and deliverances already performed by God, 
as reasons for trusting that He wull again deliver his 
people. In the conclusion both parts join in a 
chorus of praise. 

'^ The ^r^/ division is aprediftion of the coming 
of Christ. - It is answered by a description of 
God's actual appearance on Mount Sinai. 

^^ The second tells of evils impending on some 
neighbouring nations. Answered by an account of 
the deluge, when the ark was saved upon the waves. 

' K 2 

[ 182 ] 

^^ The thirdj a threat of vengeance on the ene* 
mies of God. Answered by the judgments in^ 
fliAed on Egypt^ when the Israelites were brought 
out in safety. 

^^ The fourth refers immediately to the threatened 
invasion by the Chaldeans. The answer is plun: 
I will yet trust in the Lord^ who will at length 
deliver me from my enemies. 

^^ The whole concludes with a chorus of praise*" 




^ Jehovah! I hare heard thy reportf 

f I have seen, Jehovah! thy work. 

In the midst of years Thou wih cause him to Kve^ 

In the midst of years Thou wilt give koowledgey 

In trembling Thou wilt cause to remember aierc7« 

« " A Song in Parts:** may not HvSif^ of wUditlie «*Mi«*if 
is, " division," " coming between," &c. mean .«« a divided ficce,*^ 

"a dialogue?" 

t TC^ for ^nKT Q».^ 

[ 193 ] 

n. . 

^ The Almighty came finom die soodiy 

And the Holy One from Mount Panm. Sdah. 

His glory covered the heayenf> 

And his splendour filled the earth* 

And the brightness was as the light; 

Rays darted from his hands^ 

And from the *cloudy the i^xkIc of his power; 

Before Him went the pestilence. 

And glowing fire came forth hom his feet. 

He stood, and measured the earth. 

He beheld, and explored the nations. 

And the durable mountains burst asondert 

The ancient hills fell down, 

liis paths in days of old. 


<< I have seen the tents of Cushan under afBiffipD, 
The curtains of the land of KGdian shake. 


« Was J£IK>VAH incensed in the Joods? 
Truly in the floods was thy wrath. 
Verily in the waters thy fiiry 5 
But thou madest thy chariot of salvation to ride on the 
swift ones, 

• cc 

The cloud wUch aMCMspwoltd tlw appearance of Jieotai. 

L »3* ] 

Then didst thou set up to view thy bow. 

The pledge to the tribes for thy word. Selah* 

The floods ploughed vallies in the earth; 

The mountains saw Thee, they travailed. 

Torrents of water gushed forth* 

The abyss uttered his voice, 

The sun lift up his hands on high. 

The moon stopped in her mansion, 

At the brightness of thy flying arrows, 

At the lightning of thy flashing spear, 


<< In indignation thou wilt tread the earth. 
In fury thou wilt stamp the nations. 

<< Thou wentest forth for the salvation of thy people. 
The salvation of thine anointed. 

Thou didst cut ofFtjhe first4x)rn from the house of the wicked^ 
Thou didst provoke the stubborn to bending. Selah* 

Thou didst strike the fountain with his rod, 
*Thcy were scattered, fthey came forth like a whirlwindt 
To destroy their flourishing crops, . 
While the food of the oppressed was in safety. 
Thou didst walk thy horses through the sea. 
Troubling the great waters* 

* The frogs scattered over the land, 
t The flies, locusts, &c. 

[ 135 j 

<< I heard, and siy bowels were moved. 
At the sound my lips quivered, 
' Rottenness entered into my bones. 
And they trembled beneath me; 
While I groaned for the day of tribuIatioDj 
The coming up of the people to assault us. 


^ Though the fig-tree do not blossom. 
And there be no fruit on the vine; 
Though the produce of the olive fail. 
And the parched field yield no food; 
Though the flock be cut off from the fold, 
And there be no cattle in the stalls; 
Yet I will rejoice in Jehovah, 
I will exult in God, my Saviour. 


« Jehovah my Lord is my strength, 
He will set my feet as the deer's. 
He will make me to walk on high places. 


*< To the Conqueror of my AssaOants ; 

To Him who causeth me to triumi^ in my affliAioDs.'' 

[ 136 ] 

Continual study of the Hebrew poetry probably 
suggested this Hymn; which is dated Feb, 18, 1803, 

** O Thou'! who commandest the storing 

And stillest its rage with a word ; 

Who dark'nest the earth with thy clouds. 

And call'st forth the sun in his strength; 

Who hurlestthe proud from his throne, 

And liftest the poor from the dust; 

Who scndcst aiflidtions for good. 

And blessings at times for a curse; 

Whose ways are impervious to man, 

Whose decrees we've no power to withstand;^ 

Thou hast plac'd me in poverty's vale. 

Yet giv'n me contentment and bliss. 

Should'st Thou e'er set me up on the hillj 

O let not my heart be elate ; 

But humility ever abide. 

And gratitude rule in my breast ; 

Let me feel for the woes of the poor. 

Which now I've no pow'r to reUeve ; 

Let compassion not end with a tear. 

But charity work for thy sake ; 

And the streams of beneficence fall. 

Enriching the valley beneath ; 

Then though Thou should'st wrap me in clouds. 

And threaten the hill with a storm; 

Yet the sunshine of peace shall break forth. 

And the summit reileft its last ray." 

[ 137 ] 

I am not* sure that the following reflexions are 
original. They may perhaps be translated from the, 
German; but the sentiments with regard to the 
weakness of human reason^ and the absolute neces- 
mty of divine assistance^ would certainly please Miss 
S — , as they arc perfectly in unison with her own 

^^ It is declared in the Scriptures that the natural 
man knoweth not the things of Goo^ neither can 
he comprehend them ; and I am convinced that this 
is true. God only requires the heart and its aflec- 
tions^ and after these are wholly devoted to Him, 
He himself worketh all things within it and for it. 
^ My son, give me thy heart ;' and all the rest is con- 
fomnty and obedience. This is the simple ground 
of all religion, which implies a re-union of the soul 
to a principle which it had lost in its corrupt and 
&llen state. Mankind have opposed this do^lrine^ 
because it has a dittSt tendency to lay very low the 
pride and elevation of the heart, and the perverse* 
ness of the will, and prescribes a severe mortification 
to the passions ; it will be found, notwithstanding, 
either in time or eternity, a most important truth. 

[ 138 ] 

'^ In the Holy Scriptures nothing appears to have 
a reference to the great work of salvation^ but a rec- 
titude of the hearty and subje£iion of the will ; and 
it is clear to my understanding that it should be so : 
for the mere operations of the head^ the lucubrations 
of reason on divine subjects, are as diflerent as men. 
The natural powers of man may be sanSified by the 
influences of religion in the soul^ and cease from 
opposition in matters wherein formerly they took 
supreme direftion; but until they are in aw^ful silence 
before GoD^ the work of redemption is unfelt and 

'^ Religion is an universal concern^ the only 
important business of our lives. The learned and 
the ignorant are equally the objeA of it; and it 19 
highly becoming the Father of Spirits, the friend of 
man, that all the spirits which he has made, should 
be equal candidates for his regard ; that his mercy 
should operate upon a principle, of which mankind 
are equal partakers. If the reason or the under- 
standing were alone capable of religious discernment, 
nine-tenths of the world would beejccluded firom his 


providence; but not so does his mercy operate. He 

C »39 ] 

influences by love^ and the a0e£lions are the only 
objeSs of it. 

'^ Look into the opinions of men, contemplate 
their great diversity, their compleat opposition to 
each other; and where shall the serious, the reflecting 
mind find a peaceful station to rest upon? Where 
shall it find ^ the shadow of a mighty rock, in a 
weary land' of flu£luating devices and tempests of 
opinion? Not in human literature, not in the in- 
ventions of men ; but in silence before the God of 
our lives, in pure devotion of the heart, and in pros- 
tration of the soul. The knee bends before the 
majesty of Omnipotence, and all the powers of the 
mind say. Amen ! — In matters so important as pure 
religion, the salvation of the immortal soul, it is 
highly worthy of Divipe Wisdom that He should 
take the supreme direAion to Himself alone, and not 
leave any part of the work to the device of man; for 
it is evident to every candid enquirer, that whenever 
he interferes he spoils it. Religion is of so pure and 
spotless a nature, that a touch will contaminate it. 
It is uniform, consistent, and of the same com* 
plexion and character in all nations. Languages 
and customs may greatly difler j but the language of 

[ 140 ] 

pure devotion of the heart to its Maker is one and 
the same over the face of the whole earth. It is 
acknowledged and felt ^ through the unity of the 
spirit^ in the bond of peace/ There is a haimiony 
and consistency in the works of God^ external and 
internal; the external operations of nature are 
stri£ily typical of internal things ; the visible of the 
invisible world. 

'^ I am convinced that the Author of our being 
has left nothing to man with respe£k to the formation 
of religion in the mind of a child^ but the opening 
his path^ and clearing his road from the- thorns and 
briars of contagious example. The influences of 
man consist in pure example, dispassionate per« 
suasion, and an early subjeflion of the will to what 
is written in the law of God. The enlightening the 
understanding, the purification of the hearty the ac« 
complishing the course of rectitude to the invisible 
world, and qualifying the ^ul for beatitude amongst 
the spirits of the just, must be left to Supreme 
wisdom and mercy. The sciences are of Yery par- 
tial concern, are in the hands of a few^ and are the 


proper objects of human wisdom, and attainable by ' 
its powers alone; but their centre and their circuni- 

I 141 J 

scription is in time. From high attainments in 
these the mind of man is taught to wonder, but I 
much question whether he is often taught to adore. 
They are too apt to raise the mind, to engage a de- 
moted idolatrous attention, and fix a supercilious dis^ 
regard to the humble appearance of a meek and quiet 
spirit; and if it were possible that they should zc* 
company the soul from time to eternity, they would 
prove asubjeft of humiliation before an eye that is 
more extensively opened; yet these may be sanfti- 
fied by the influence of religion." 

I do not know when Miss S — read Mr. Locked 
Essay on Human Understanding, but it gave occa- 
sion to the following remarks, which are prefaced 
with a modest allusion to her own inferiority to this 
great writer, and were never, I believe, seen by any 
body till after her death. 

^ A fly found fault with one of the finest works of man.^ 

'^Locke's ideas on Infinity appear to me to" 
want his usual clearness. Perhaps the fault is in 
my own understanding. I will try to unravel my 

[ 142 ] 

thoughts on the 8ubjc(Si^ and see on which aide thd 
error lies. 

*^ His manner of representing to himself infinity 
is to add together certain known quantities^ whether 
of space or duration^ as miles^ or years> and when 
tired with multiplication^ he contemplates abound- 
less remainder. Thls^ indeed^ serves to bewilder the 
mind in the idea of incomprehensible immensity ; 
the remainder which is always left^ is a cloud that 
conceals the end ; but so far from convincing us there 
is none, the very idea of a remainder carries with it 
that of an end; and when we have in thought passed 
through so large a part of space or duration^ we 
must be nearer the end than when we set out. I 
think the cause of Mr. Locke's confusion on this 
subject is his use of the word parts. He says that 
the parts of expansion and duration are not separa- 
ble, even in thought. Then why say they have 
parts? Surely whatever has parts, may be divided 
into those parts, and w hat is not divisible, cwea 
in imagination, has no parts. He forgets his own 
excellent definition of time and place, that ^ they are 
only ideas of determinate distances, froni certain 
known points, fixed in distinguishable, sensible 
things, and supposed to keep the same distance one 

from another;* only marks set up for our use white 
on earth, to help us to arrange things in our narrow 
understandings by shewing their relative situations, 
and not really existing in nature. This he forgets, 
and having granted that duration and expansion have 
parts, he applies his minutes and his inches to mea* 

sure eternity and infinite space. To prove the 

fallacy of this method, suppose 10,000 diameters of 
the earth to be some part, a 10th or 10,000th part 
of infinite space; then infinite space is exa£tly 10 
times, or 10,000 times, 10,000 diameters of the earth, 
and no more. Infinite space has certain bounds, 
which is a contradi6lion« There is no impropriety 
in taking a foot rule to measure the ocean, because 
multiplied a certain number of times, it will give 
the extent of the ocean ; but no multiple of what is 
finite can ever produce infinity ; for though number 
abstractedly be infinite, a series of numbers may go 
on continually increasing, yet no one of those 
numbers can express infinity^ each being in itself a 
determined quantity. When in the beginning of 
a series, two are added together, each of those two 
must be circumscribed, consequently the whole cir- 
cumscribed ad ififim'tum."— -^^OnihG contrary, unity 
teems much more capable of expressing infinity^ 

[ 144 ] 

though we finite beings^ incapable at present of 
comprehending it^ can form but a vague and inade* 
quate idea. Unity has no bounds, nor^ as Mr, 
Locke says, any shadow of variety or composition; 
and to appeal at once to the highest authority^ it if 
the sign that the Great Creator has used, as being 
the most proper to convey an idea of Himself to 
our finite understandings. 

^' Succession, without which Mr. Locke says ha 
cannot conceive duration, is still a division of it into 
parts. I believe his opinion to be right, that our 
only perception of duration is from the succession of 
bur own ideas ; but is our perception of it the causa 
of its existence ? No more than our walking over the 
ground is the cause of its extension. He grants 
this, when he says, that during sleep we have no 
perception of duration, but the moment when we 
fall asleep, and that in which we awake, seem tons 
to have no distance. Since then there may be 
duration without our perception of succession^ m^ 
it not be a£tually without succession? Where all 
things are eternal, there can be no relation of the 
end of one to the beginning of another j coase* 
quently no time, the measure of a relatioii wfaiok 


does not ' ^^•r )Ttere is aoQtfaei?; , ^ase la ,yfbic|i. 
^t^ LQ0ke;tmQks a^piaaivpuldt.ji^ceive no sttp-^ 
ce8Si<;^ iii;4<ti^aUoii;;T^if;it were pq^ ^ible for him tp, 
]^eep :bi? nund eatif ely . fised ou on^ id^a. . Does^ not 
this apply tO; the Supifeme.Beixig,, who haying al-r 
ways all ideas presec^t to his mind,- c;aa perceive bq 
succ^sioa } As B^ fil)s at once all space^ He exisUi 


at. opce . through all eternity. . I do not, pretend to 
liave discovered the chain 9fn)y own reason- 
ing; it is suggested to me by: the name which CJpp 
gives us of Hixnselfk: He tells us^ not onl^ that He 
is tT 0^9 the existing; but also that He is i^^^l\ 
existenccy present^- future^ and past^ in one: which 
seema to me t,o mean^ not merely that He can look 
forward or backward into a record of events^ but 
that .there is ao.succe^sion inhis duration; that what 
we call present past> and future^ ate always equally 
present; that all is perfe& unity; there is no variety 
or shadow of chai^ng. Many passages might be 
brought firom Soiipture to confirm this, opinion^ and 
some^ which I think are not intelligible without it | 
such as^ ^ a thousand years are with Him as one 
dayi' ^ before Abr2^m was, I am;' ^time 
shall be no longer;' ^ there was no place found;' 
answer C3tt^y; to liOcke^s definition above^ and prove 

r us J 

that there is no diTision in eternity ot infinite space. 
The dispute about fbrekhowledge and free«wi]l 
might be settled by viewing the subjeA in this light. 
If there be no sticcitesion in the existence of 60 d^ 
if the pa^t afad future be equally present^ He sees the 
whole course df bur lives at once^ as clearly as anj 
particular moment which we nbw call present^ with- 
but influencing our anions more kt one pdlatof 
time that ^t ahbther. The infinite divisibility rf 
matter too may h^e denied^ on the ground that what 
admits o^ divlsibil or tifiukiplicatio)!^^ canaot be 

*' I have observed aftblfer iftaccurtey in Mr, 
Lbclce^ as spots are mbs't Visible bH the whitest 

*' He defines knowTedge to be **the peroepdon 
of the agreement or diskgfeement 'of any of oar 
ideas/ So far well : but to b^ sure that it is real 
Icnowledge, he says^ ^ we must be sure those ideas 
agree with the reality of thhigB.* This is* also 
^rue; but as we hsive'ilo perceptiofi of thingsbnt 
l>y means of seiisatibn, and we liave oneftj on a 
closer inspe3ion^ discovered that dur sensies have 
deceived" us, ho\v can we know thkl they danot 
always deceivfeUs? ' If we Cannot ktlow this> ire 

C J*7 3 

cannot be sure that our ide^ ag^ with tbe reality 
of things, qonsequently cannot attain ,to any real 
knowledge during this life. We can only believe 
JtesHxnony which upon e;cperie^ce we have reason to 
think true, aqd , can be said ^ibsolutelv to know no- 
thing, but .what Goj) has be^n .pleased to rqyeal. If 
it be asked bo^ we know that lie.has. revealed any 
thing to us^ the aujBwer is^ we ca^ only believe it; 
but on examining the testinaony^ we find there is 
full as good proof that we have revelations .from God 
Himself in the Scriptures^ as that ai^y objeft of sen- 
sation is what it appears to be. If therefore wp 
grant our assent to the one^ why refuse it to the 
other? And Jiaving once established that we have 
revelations from God Himself in the Scriptures^ it 
follows^ that what is so i^ei^led must be true ; and 
that from thence we may reap real knowledge. 
.Whatever else we call knowledge^ is either mere 
•coDJe&ure^ or .dlerived through some channel or 
other from revelation. Of this I am the more con- 
vinced by observing ideas current amongst men, 
which it seems impossible they should originally 
form. Such is the idea of a God^ of infinity, and 
eternity; for notwithstanding the boasted powers of 

L 2 

t 148 1 

human reason, and the light of nature;*-^8tnce I 
find them incapable of discovering the essence of the 
most familiar objedl, or of taking the first step in 
ahy science^-^I have great reason to doubt their 
power of discovering the being of God ; and infi-^ 
liity and eternity never coming within their percep* 
iion, r am persuaded men never could fbrm such 
ideas. Therefore if they were led by the contieni'^ 
plation of nature to conjeAure there must be acme 
cause of all the wonders it presents^ they would still 
seek for some cause of that cause, and merely be 
lost in endless speculations. If it be objeAed^ that 
some of the ancient philosophers had the idea of 
infinity, and that the existence of a GbD is believed 
by most nations: I answer, it was not human reason 
made those discoveries; if it were, why have not sH 
nations eqiial lights, atl hkving the fl^ame guide? On 
the contrary, I have no doubt that whatever vague 
ideas of Deity are found in any coimtiy, mighty if 
we ktiew the exa£i: hiisfoty of its inhabitants^ b6 
traced to the original fevelatioii to Adaita^ to N^oab, 
&c/ preserved or corrupted by tradition. This his 
been done in a great measure with respeft to some 

^ *^1 wish to ask what Mr. Locke meatts by the Iig|itof 
ii^uret when he has proved that we have no innate ideas! 

[ He ] 

of the Indian' nations^ by Sir William Jones and 
others^ and it still remains a fine field for future 
research. If we examine those nations of antiquity 
\Kbich had the most nearly adequate ideas of the 
Deity^ we shall find them to be thpse which were 
ffvoure^i with the most freqpent revelations. • Th^ 
Jews clefirly stand foremost in both these respe3;s; 
^d why shoi^ld they<| who were never thought sUr 
perior to the Gf^ks iq abilities^ be supposed capable 
of more sublime ideas^ unless they received them 
frpqi revelation ? Why should some of the Greek 
philosophers come so much nearer the truth than 
others of not infi^rior capacities^ but that besides 
tjje vulgar belief of th^ir country, (the corruption of 
original revelation,) they received iiistruflion from 
some of the Jews, or frpip the study of the Sibyllin^ 
Oracles, and the verses of Orpheus } If, on the con* 
trary, we look at thos^ nations furthest removed iq 
time and place from the centre of dispersion, as the 
savages of America, Africa, &c. those particularly 
who,. having had the least commerce with the rest of 
the world, come nearest to our ideas of nature ; we 
find that their reason, though unwarped by the pre- 
judices of education, far from leading them to su- 
perior knowledge, and a more intimate acquainta;ic($ 

C 156 ] 

with God sifid his works than is to ht met with 
in civilized society^ has left them but one degree 
above the brutes they associate with. Original re- 
velation^ not only of the existence of a GoD^ but . 
of all arts and sciences^ except perhaps those most 
immediately tiecessdry to exiistehbe/ being in some 
entirety worn out; in others so niutilated and de- 
faced as scarcely to be recognized^ — in the midftt c^ 
this darktiess tio genius starts up with the discovery 
of abstraft truth; there does not seem even to be 
any progriess in improvement; for the accotihts of 
some of them at this day agree exdStly with what 
was written of them ages ago. If then man were 
originally created in the savage state^ how catn^ the 
itnprovemehts we observe amongst ourselves^ since^ 
when reduced again to that state^ we see him inca- 
pable of taking the first step towaiHls getting out of 
it? I think this is the fair way of stating the parallel 
between human reason and divine revelation; for ' 
though all knowledge would still come from GoD^ 
if He made man capable of discovering it^ it seems 
to me plain that He has not done so; and therefore 
we should do well to apply to his word for instrac- 
tion in the first place^ as being the only fountain of 
real knowledge/' 

, T^e fatnily l^ul resided; five yenn^Atfi^-^^-^f atid* 


liSi/i^ enjoyjed very good health. f^zat^e^V ^^ P^^* 
tiouiarly &nd of. the plap^^ and tbf^ >ir sieemed to 
fgree with her better than any othcx. .The. beauty 
of ihq surrounding scenery,. her en thu^ia;stic fiflmU 
ration of such xn^nificentwd sublime views as th4 
country afford^^ and her taste for drawing, certaUily 
led her to trust/ top much to the strength of her e^? 
cellent constitution^ and p use jno^re exei;cise than 
,was good for her^ but it did not appear to disa^^ 
with her, apd I do npt knpw th^t tbe;:e was any 
fause of alarm in regard ^ her he^^h^ till tbe fatal 
evenii:^ in July 1 80S; wbio|h is meptione4 l>y Mrs, 
£h-- in a letter to Pr^ K-^ jto which I refer the 
reader.* It W4s on ^le llthx>f Oaober 1805, that 
JMiss S—- ^iirivedat Bath ip, the Jad state which that 
letter dcffntO^, Wk^^ / jEelt ^t f his ;ineeting may 
be easily in[i|i^yq^. Puj(^ tlhe i[ew d^ys which 
Bbe sp^t jffitik m^3 the sjiill pf Pr, G— ^ md the 
foare of thie tend^i^^t ^ pACQPt3^ ^fnp^aix^ to be at- 
tended witb all the benefit we coidd e;qpe&. She 
had lost her yoice> A» m^ii as the use of her limbs ; 
but she enjoyed society, and expressed particular 

* See Appendix* 

[ 152 ] 

pleasure in meeting Mr. De Luc^ who spent some 
hours with us. When she was able to be removed 
to the house of her kind friends Mr. and Mrs. CS— >, 
I went to Glifton^ where a dangerous illness detained 
xnej till my extreme anxiety to see Miss &— * before 
she left Bath^ detennined me to return on the 9l6t 
of December. My dear friend came to me the next 
mornings and appeared so much better in* every 
resped^ that I was led to cherish hopes which les^ 
isened the pain of our approaching parting.' She 
eould then converse with ease and pleasuihe^ aiid 
walk without difiicuhy^ and the last hours which I 
was ever to enjoy with her in this world, were some • 
of the most delightful that I ever spent. She amu- 
ously wished to be removed to Sunbury-to see her 
amiable sister before her marriage; and after sleepi- 
ing one night at my house, she set out for that jdaoe 
with Mrs, S — , and I saw her no more. • 

A letter written immediately after her removal 
from Bath, to her kind friend Mrs. C— , shews how 
much better she was at that time, and that she was 
able to resume some of her favourite pursuits, j 

C i*^ J 

I I 

^^ToMrs. C— » ' 

•■ . ■■.■....••' 

" Sunhwjf'y i>tc. 29 f 1*05. 

** Dear Madam, ' . -• 

^^ Having no excuse of illness for employing am 
amanuensis, I take the pen myself to thank you for 
aH your goodness to me, of which I assure yoa I 
shall always retain a grateful setise. The good 
eifeSts of your nursing now appear. I wias certainly 
somewhat fatigued with the journey, and for the 
first two days after I arrived was but indifferent, but 
yesterday and to-day I am a^onishingly well, bavt 
learnt to sleep, and cough but little. I have been 
thus particular in the account of myself^ because, 
from the kind interest you and Mr, O— take in my 
welfare, I know you would wish it. 

•* I am very busy tracing the situation of Troy, ia 
Mr. Cell's book, and am veiy well satisfied Witb it» 
Yesterday we took an airing to HamptOn-CourC and 
Twickenham. The day was delightful^ and the air 
seemed to give me new life. 

*^ K — returns her best thanks for all your good 
wishes, and hopes to make her acknowledgments 
more fully in person. You have perhaps heard that 

[ 15^4 ] 
she is to be married on Wednesday^ and go to 

^^ With grateful and affedionate respeds to Mr< 
•^ I remainj dear Madam^ 

*^ Your ever obliged, &c* E. S J 


; For some time after she arrived at Sir J, I«— 's at 
3unbury,. Elizabeth was able to e;njoy the agreeable 
society which that house affords, to walk out a little, 
and to take constant exercise in a carriage; but these 
favourable appearances did not continue Iqi^. I 
bad a letter, in which she hinted at the dangerous 
state ip which she evidently thought she was ; and 
an extra& from one written to her beloved aiater 
speal^ the same language with regard to tier heallk 

^^ March 2S/i« 
^' I want you, my K — , to be as composed on this 
subjed, as I am myself. You must not be fri^t- 
«ned when you hear I am worse, nor because it is 
said that I am better, suppose thati am to be inunedi- 
ately well; for both mean nothing, and perhaps last 
but a &w hours. I have myself a decided opinion 
of the probability of the event, and I see jao kind- 

[ «5 ] 

liess in feeding you wilh false hopes. I Nvidh^dbto 
be prepared for vfhsLtyeu, though not /^ trduldcall 
the worst. I do not mean that there a|« imy 
symptoms to cause immediate alarm> but thQ ccm- 
fititution seems to be wearing out; tliat^ how«verj 
may be restored by the vvami air of the spring and 


summer. Assure Mr, A— of my esteem and re- 
gard, and tell him I shall never forget his kind 
attentions to me, &c/' 

To her friend Mrs. W— she writes thus : 


*' C , July 4, iSOtt. 

'^ I am sure, my dear Mrs. W — has not attri- 
buted to unkindness or negled, or any of those 
impossible things^ my keeping unanswered a most 
kind letter of her's, from January to July. The 
case is this. I thought you heard enough of me^ 
while my mother was at Bath. After she came to 
Sunbury, we were always going, and I was never 
well enough, or quiet enough, to write to you as I 
liked; besides, I thought I should write from Mat- 
lock, where I should fancy (hat you were present^ 
and that I was talking to you. Ofien^ indeed^ did 

C is« J 

we talk of you^ and wish for you there ; but there- 
again there was no quiet^ and I never felt equal to 
writings or doing any thing. In shorty I have never 
had a pen in my hatid firom the time I leftSunbury^ 
till now; and now^ if my father were not going 
to»morrowj I should put off writings in hopes of 
being more able to say something to you some other 
day. This^ however^ I can say to-day, or any day;— - 
that though my strength has faiM^ my memory and 
affedions have not; find that while they remain, 
you will ever hold your place in the one, and your 
share in the other. I ^m mugh coacerned at the 
accounts which I hearof you.— — It is very tediona 
to suffer so long; but we shall all be better soon, 

'^ As to myself, of whom I know you will wish 
to hear something, I do very well when the sun 
shines, and the wind is in the south; I seem then to 
inhale new life at every pore; but if a northern blast 
spring up, (my original enemy,) I seem to shrink 
and wither like a blighted leaf. To avoid this 
enemy, I am obliged to keep the houscj* which is 
not at all favourable to a recovery. I have been as 
ill, I think, since I came home, as I have ever been; 
but better the last few days, which have been fine 
ones. My mother is all kindness and attention to 

inc, and T— is the 'best iidrs^ in the '^'Ofrld j but aft 
this cfare will turn tb iio aicf^x>uht^ ttnless the summef 
should happen to be aJinWone: tBmpctkSdyegsf 
as to the events and only wish I were not so trou- 
bli^soliie to others^;-i-^«-^You would love Iw^-«, If you 
knew hbw thoughtful and attentive he has been to 
me; He will be a gipeat loss to iney and to my 
mother a still greater; for h^ is her constant compft* 
nion^ and a very entertainmg^one. - My moitber do^ 
sires me to say every thing that is kmdlfor her ; but 
indeed I have so much to say for myself^ arid am so 
totally incapable of saying it^ that I must leave you 
to fill up the blank with what yoii know of us botb^ 
not forgetting that Mrs. B^— is always to have her 
full share* Your ever afle&ionate &c/' 

From the time that Mrs. S-— left. Batbj which 
was about the end of Marchy the accounts whidi I 
received in all her letters^ most strongly painted the 
anguish which iier too tender heart felt, while watch^ 
ing the gradual approach of the dreaded event'whieli 
^he had from the first considered as inevitable. Oa 
the 9th of July, Capt S— and his youngest son L-— 
^aent some hours- with mein their way to Plymoutl;^ 

f 158 ] 

tnd brought me a letter from Elizabeth^ of which 
the foUowipg is an extraft. It is the last that I cfer 
teceivedfrQQ\that dear hand! 

^^ Having xletermioed to send a kw lines by my 
£Erther to my best of friends, before your kind and 
most welcome letter arrived^ I am not now dis* 
obeying your commands by writing, but fulfilling 
ny own previous intention, I can never thank you 
enough for all the kind interest you take in me and 
my health. I wish my friends were as composed 
about it as I am; for thanks to you and your ever 
dear and respe£ted mother, I have learnt to lodk on 
life and death with an equal eye, and knowing where 
my hope is fixed, to receive every dispensation of 
Providence with gratitude, as intended for my ulti- 
mate good. The only wish I ever form, and even 
that I check, is that my illness might be more 
severe, so it might be shortened; that I might 
not keep my father and mother so long in suspense 
with regard to all their plans, and occasicNti so much 
trouble and' anxiety to my friends. — I should like to 
aay much to you on this subje£i^ but I am pitssed 
*fer time, and as you may see, I do. not make a very 
igood hand of writing,—- You enquire how the change 

[ iw ] 

of weather affeAed me? A3 much as you caa pos^ 
sibly suppose. During the hot weather I really 
thought I should get rid of the cough; but with the 
cold^ every symptom returned as strong as ever* 
Yesterday and to-day have been warm and pleasant. 
I get into the teni^ where I now am^ and revive^ 
We shall indeed lose a great comfort when L — * goes 
He has been most kmdly attentive to me. &c. &c/ * 

In my answer to this letter I did not attempt to 
deceive my friend; I knew her too well to think it 
necessary or right to do so. I wrote as to a Christian 
on the verge of eternity^ and whose whole life^ as 
her mother justly observes^ had been a preparation 
for death. I received her thanks for my letter^ in a 
most kind message conveyed to me by Mrs. S^^m^ 
who spoke in every letter of increasing illness^ — till 
in one which she kindly addressed to my friend Mrs, 
D — y she said^ ^^ this morning the angel spirit fledl" 
Aug. 7> 1806. 

* Her youngest brother ; who was theo gobg to sea for 
the first tunc. 



Letters from Mrs. «?— to the Rev. Dr, R- 
written after the Death of Miss S 


'' C , 1807. 

^* T Am gratified, my dear Sir, in complying with 
your wish, because the request proves that the 
esteem which you professed for my beloved daugh- 
ter's charafier, is not buried with her in the grave; 
and because it justifies me to myself for dwelling 
so much on a subject on which t have a melancholy 
pleasure in reflecting. I shall repress the feelings and 
partiality of a parent, and merely state a few simple 
faSs, conneded with the progress of her mind. 

'* Elizabeth was born at B— — , in the county of 
burham, in December 1770. At a very early age 
she discovered that love of reading, and that close 
application to whatever she engaged in, which 

M 2 

[ 164 ] 

inarkcd her charafter through life. She was accus- 
tomed, when only three years old, to leave an elder 
brother and younger sister to play and amuse them* 
selves, whilst she eagerly seized on such books as a 
nursery library commonly affords, and made herself 
mistress of their contents. At four years of age she 
read extremely well. What in others is usually the 
e(fe£l of education and habit, seemed bom with her; 
from a very babe the utmost regularity was obser* 
vable in all her actions; whatever she did was well 
done, and with an apparent reflection far beyond her 
years. I mention these minute circumstanceS| be- 
cause I know that whatever pourtrays her chara&er^ 
will interest the friend for whose perusal I write. 

** In the beginning of 1782, we removed into a 
distant county, at the earnest intreaty of a blind 
relation; and in the following year, my attendance 
on him becoming so necessary as daily to engage 
several hours, at his request I was induced to 
take a young lady, whom he wished to serve^ in 
consequence of her family having experienced some 
severe misfortunes. This lady was then scarcely 
sixteen, and I expefted merely to have found a 
companion for my children during my absence; 
but her abilities exceeded her years, and she became 

their governess during our stay in Suffolk, which, 
was about eighteen xnontlis. On the death of my 
relation in 1784, we returned to B — , and remained 
there till June in the following year, when we re- 
moved to Piercefield. In the course of the pre- 
ceding winter Elizabeth had made an uncommon 
progress in music* From the time of our quitting 
Suffolk, till the spring of 1786, my children had 
no instru&ioa except from myself; but their fori](ier 
governess then returned to me, and continued in 
the family three years longer. By her the children 
were instructed in French, and in the little Italian 
which she herself then im^erstood. I mention 
these particulars to prove how very little instru&ion 
in languages my daughter received, and that the 
knowledge she afterwards ficquirecl of them was the 
effe£l: of her own unassisted study^ 

'^ It frequently happens that circumstances appa^ 
rently trifling determine our charai^er, and some- 
times even our fate in life. I always thought that 
Elizabeth was first induced to apply herself to the 
study of the learned languages, by accidentally 
bearing that the late Mrs. B*- acquire^ some know* 
ledge of Hebrew and Greek, purposely to read the 
Holy Scriptvires in the original languagei^. In the 

[ 166 ] 

summer of 1789^ this most excellent woman^ with 
her youngest daughter, spent a month at Piercefield, 
and I have reason to hail it as one of the happiest 
months of my life. From that period to the hour 
of her death, I had in Mrs. B — the steadiest^ the 
jnost afTeftionate of friends ; a friend who had at 
heart not only the temporal, but the eternal happi- 
ness of myself and family; and who, in proportion as 
summer friends flew off, became yet more attached 
to me.« 

*^From the above-mentioned visit I date the turn 
of study which Elizabeth ever after pursued, and 
which, I firmly believe, the amiable conduA of our 
guests first led her to delight in. Those who knew 
the late Mrs. B — , could not withhold from her their 
love and reverence. With young persons she had a 
'manner peculiar to herself, which never failed to 
secure their affeAions, at the moment she conveyed 
to their minds the most important instrudions. 
The Word of God was her chief study and delight, 
and she always endeavoured to make it so to others. 
The uncommon strength of her understanding, and 
the clearness with which she explained the most ab- 
struse subjeds^ ensured her theadmiratioxiandre^peft 



[ 168 ] 


for troubling you with a few observations upon it. 
In childhood^ our a£tions are under the dofntrbiri cf 
others^ and we are scarcely answersiblfe for thettr; 
but from the period when we renew our baptismal 
vow in Confirmation^ and solemnly dedicate our&elves 
to the service of our Creator and Rede'eteer by re- 
ceiving the Holy Eucharist, we nriUst be tonsidered 
as thinking and ad:ing for ourselves; though still 
subje6l to the conimands, and happy in the advice; 
of our parents. You have, I ()resuiiie, bfeen soffi* 
ciently instructed in all the necessary articles of fifith; 
but i know you think deeply oh all siibjeftd^ and if 
you feel any doubts, or see any difEculties^ iii \hi 
Christian Religion, this is the time when ybti shbuM 
endeavour to satisfy yourself with regard to them^ 
and perhaps my library might afford you that sa- 
tisfaction, if you would indulge me with, your con* 
fidence, and mention them to me. The necessary 
articles of faith appear to me few and simple^ and 
rather addressed to the heart than the head. The 
Gospel was preached to the poor and ignorant^ as 
well as to the learned; and the seed sprung up 'and 
bore fruit, whenever it fell on good ground. Biit 
those who have abilities and opportunity^ sliouid 
spare no pains to examine the evidences which hare 

[ 169 } 

Convinced some of the wisest men that ever Hved^ of 
the divine authority of the Holy Scriptures; and 
such an examination is particularlv necessary in thb 
present times. When we are convinced that thfc 
Bible is the word of Go©, and the rule of our faith 
and pra6tice, nothing remains biit to listen with 
revet'ence and devotion to the divine instru6lion >4t 
contains^ and to believe, oh the authority of God, 
wiiat our weak reason could never have discovered, 
nor can fully comprehend. The humble, pious, 
and virtuous mind, which willingly accepts the 
gracious promises of the Gospel, and is fully resoU 
ved to practise the duties it enjoins, will seldom be 
disturbed by those objeftions to its doSrines which 
have been often answered to the satisfaction of the 
best and wisest men. The Christian religion is so 
suited to a feeling heart, that I think we can waut 
no arguments for its truth, except those which are 
drawn from its evident tendency to make us virtuous 
and happy. To love the GoD who created and re- 
deemed us; to express our* gratitude for infinite 
obligations, by the sincere though imperfbft service 
of a few years; to cast all our care on Him who 
cafeth for us; and, secure in his protection, to banish 
every gloomy apprehension which might disturb our 

peace;— -this surely must appear an easy task to those 
who know and feel the pleasure of even an earthly 
friendship : but when we add to this the certainty 
that our endeavours to please will be not only ac- 
cepted^ but rewarded; when every Christian can 
say, * after a few years, perhaps after a few hoursj I 
•hall, if it is not my own faulty be happy, perfefily 
happy to all eternity;' surely, with such encourage- 
ments and such hopes^ no temptation should have 
power to draw us from our duty. Yet when we 
look into the world, when we see how little influence 
these principles have in society, and how seldom 
they guard the heart against the allurements of 
pleasure, or support it under the pressure of afflic- 
tion; it must be evident to every thinking mind, 
that verj' great and constant care is necessary to 
preserve through life those good resolutions^ which I 
believe most people form when they enter into it. 
J'or this purpose allow me to recommend constant 
devotion, A few minutes spent every momiqg and 
evening in this duty will be the best preservative 
against the temptations to which we must be exposed; 
but in order to make it really useful, it should be 
accompanied with self-examination, and it should be 
followed by such an habitual sense of the presence 

E ni ] 

of God as may influence our conduif): in every part 
of our life. In our gayest as well as in our gravest 
moments ; in our studies^ and our pleasures; in the 
tender intercourse of friendship; in the sprightly 
sallies of a conversation which seems only intended 
for amusement; still we should be able to turn our 
thoughts with heartfelt satisfaction to that tender 
Parent to whom we owe all our gjuiltless pleasures. 
* Whether ye eat or drink, or whatever ye do, do all 
lo the glory of God/ The business in which we 
cannot ask his protection and assistance, cannot be 
an innocent pursuit; the amusement for which we 
dare not thank Him, cannot be an innocent pleasure. 
This rule strongly impressed on the mind, and ap- 
plied to every circumstance in life, will be a constant 
* guard over virtue in all situations, and a constant 
check to every thought as well as a6tion which ig 

contrary to our duty, Such, I think, should be 

the piety of a true Christian; and such piety will 
undoubtedly afibrd the highest pleasures we are 
capable of feeling in this world, while it guards that 
'virtue which will secure our happiness in the next. 
But to entitle ourselves to this intercourse with our 
God, we must carefully and constantly attend to 
the state of our souls, by frequent and diligent self- 

C 172 ] 

examination. As this appears to me a point of great 
importance at all times, and particularly as prepa- 
ratory to receiving the Holy Sacrament^ allow me 
to explain more fully what I took the liberty of 
saying when we conversed on this subje£l« 

*^ At our entrance into life, (by which I mean the 
period which follows the total dependence of child- 
hood,) it is necessary to obtain a just idea of our 
own chara£ter, and of our particular duties. No- 
body is so perfe£l as not to have a tendency to some 
fault. Pride, passion, fretfulness, obstinacy^ indo* 
lence, and many other failings, are perhaps bom 
with us, and whoever has not discovered one or 
more of these in his heart, certainly does not know 
himself. Let us then, as the first step towards 
wisdom and virtue, carefully study our own charu- 
ter, and determine where our principal danger lies; 
and remember, as my beloved Sister observes^ that 
* he who has discovered a fault in his chara£kerj and 
intreated God's assistance to conquer it^ has eiv 
gaged Omnipotence on his side,* 

*^ The next point to be considered is our partica* 
lar situation, and the duties it requires. It is vain 
to suppose we could do better in diScrent circum- 
stances, or to think that our imaginary merits will 

I 173 ] 

^^r our real faults; we are not to choose our ow« 
part in life^ but to ad: properly that which is a84 
signed to us. What are my particular duties ? Howf 
can I best serve God? How can I most contribute 
to the happiness of those with whom I am conne&-v 
ed ? How can I employ my time and my talents to 
the best advantage ? What are the errors into which 
I am most likely to fall ? Do I hurt those whom I 
am most bound to please^ by pride^ peevishness^ or 
contempt; or do I make them happy by constant 
kindness^ gentleness, and long-suffering ? These are 
questions which every human being should ask his 
own hearty and which only his own heart can ani^ 
swer. From an examination of this kind^ I should 
wish every one who really aims at Christian perfec- 
tion to make out in writing a plan of life suited 
to his particular situation and charader^ and reso- 
lutely determine to slA up to it. This requires time 
and refle£tion; but this once done our task will be 
much easier afterwards. A few minutes every night 
should be spent in considering how far we have 
conformed to that plan through the day, which 
I think is most easily discovered by considering 
how the day has been spent; for every thing, be it 
ever so trifliogj if it is to be done at all, may be done 

[ 174 ] 

well or ///. — ^Dld I attend to my devbtlons in tlnl 
morning? Have I done good, or contributed to the 
happiness of others ; or have I given pain to any 
human being by unkindness? Have I been surpri* 
sed by those faults, whatever they are, which I have 
most reason to dread; or have I carefully avoided 
them? — Such questions constantly asked, and im<k 
partially answered, will prevent our acquiring wrong 
habits; and nothing is unconquerable^ which is hot 
habitual. Bishop Andrews says, ^ sleep is so like 
death, that I dare not venture on it without prayer;' 
and I think it would be well if we considered it in 
that light, and made our peace with God at the end 
of every day, as if it were the last we should enjoy. 
I am sure the habit of doing this would greatly lessea 
the horrors of that awful period, when we must make 
up our accounts, however painful it may be to us^ 
When habit has made this easy, little more will .be 
necessary to guard us against that self-deceit which 
is our most dangerous enemy; but at stated times, 
as at the beginning of every year, and when we 
intend to receive the Sacrament, it will be useful to 
take a general review of our past life, and compare 
it with the plan we had determined to pursue, in 
order to see how far we have kept the good reso* 

I m 1 

tutions we had formed^ and in what resped it i| 
most necessary to guard our future conduiSl. 

** Perhaps, my dear young friend, I have said no- 
thing which your own good sense would not point 
out to you much' better than I am capable of doin^ 
it, and I have taken a liberty for whicH I can only 
plead the advantage which very moderate talents 
tnust gain from experience. I have lived longer in 
the world than you, and have felt the ill efTefts of 
many errors which I hope you ^ill avoid; but I have 
also sometimes felt the good efFe£ts of those prin- 
ciples, and that line of condud, which I wish to 
recommend to you, and in which I trust Providence 
will guide you to eternal happiness. Sec. &c/^ 

Mrs. S-« to thk Rev, Dr. R- 

^^ At the age of thirteen, Elizabeth became a sort 
of governess to her younger sisters, for I then parted 
with the only one I ever had, and from that time 
the progress she made in acquiring languages, both 
ancient aud modern, was most rapid.— This degree 

C 176 1 

cf information, so unusual in a.woman^ occai^ioBed 
no confusion in her well-regulated mind. She wj^ 
a living library; but locked up except^Qiien 
lew. H^r talents were ^ like bales unopen^ -to 
the sun;' and from a want of communication wfgp^ 
not as beneficial to others as they might have beeni 
for her dread of being called a.learned la^y causod 
I uch an excess of modest reserve as perhaps formed 
the greatest defe£h in her charader. Butr I will go 
back to the period of which I was spewing., 
. /< When Elizabeth- was fifteen years old^ we wen; 
reading Warrington's History of Wales, in whiqt^ 
he mentions the death of Llewellyn-ap-Grifiyddj as 
happening on the banks of the Ay^ye, ^t a place 
which he calls Buillt, and. its having beep occa* 
sioned by his being pierced with. a spear, as he 
attempted .to make his escape through. a etove. We 
amused ourselves with supposing that IJevrellyn's 
death must have happened in. our grove^ ^^J^^ ^^"^ 
I^rge stones were cre£led (as we chose to imagine) 
to commemorate that event ; and that the adjoiuiqg 

■ - ■ - ■ « 

grounds were from thenceforth called. Piercefield. 
T];iis conversation gave rise toa poem^ of which Mrs* 
H. B«— has a copy^ with other papers: oq the 
subjc^t^ for a sight of which I refer ypH, to her, 

: ^"WheadrafcrieoffortimedrovtiufroiffPie^ 
fddy my daughter had just entered her stventeeiith 
jear, an age at which she might have been sup* 

poiM to have lamented deeply many oeQteqyieqt 

privetionsk Of the firmness of her mind on tha( 
occasion, no one can judge bettec than yourself; 
for yon had an opportunity to observe it^ when im^ 
mediately after the blow was.ftrock, yoii offered^ 
fiom motaveaof gtnerotts fnenaship^ to niidertakeft 
ehaige wUch no pecuniary consideratidns cocdd 
ittduce you to accept a few months befi^re. I do 
not recoUcA a single instance of a murmur having 
escaped her^ or the least expression of regret at what 
she had loft{ on the contrary sheidways appeared 
contented; and particularly after our fixing at 
C , it seemed as if the place and mode of 

life were sudi as she pfefierrad, and in which she 
was most happy. 

^^ I pass over in siknoe a time in which wt had 
no home of our own^ and when^ firom the deranged 
st&te of our affiurs» we were indebted for one to the 
kindness and generosity of a fiiend;* nor do I speak 
of the time spent in Ireland^ whcp following tftt 
Rgiment with my husband, because the want of a 

« Mil. M«^ nowMia. & Si^ 


t 11» 1 

sefcded.'abode iotcmxpted those stodfiei in whWh^iny 
dangbter most deligl»tod. Books «ii& n6t ligbl <f 
«arriage> and tbe.blow. which defnivcdiMi of; Pierce* 
fifild^;.dcpnved iis^f a libnrj[ alaoci Sot ^oii|^ihH 
jieriod of her lifisL-aiflbicled litdis opjioifaliiity - So€ ka^ 
pfdvementinsciaife^ tbeqiialibe&.ofhtr.heanjttfet 
appeared iaa more «n»blel^t.;:ThsoiBighaiU. die 
viconVenienceg: Hiidufib attemied odr ailuatioa -whik 
Mvicig in barraqks^^ Aie firmneaa aqd'ckecTftiLmiBh 
aaUon of her windy m tlie age o^ ninetMi^ Aiad^aae 
hkiah fev the tear which too frcjqtte&t))^ ttenibieiUB 
tiyeye^-at the recoUedicm of -aS'lhei obmfeM %e 
Hadtoet ■■..;:.•-.• 

J ^^ loOaober 1800^ we left IrelMd^ and -dctct- 
tfiinQi 4>Q eeekkig oat some -i^tirt^d'siOLiatfaHi in 
lingland^ in the lii9p^<tbat by strift ^^nonqr^-and 
with4he ble6smgQf-ebeerft|},^oiMntbd'intndai we 
might yet find something like comfiyrt^|'>faMah Ihflf 
fitqtient change'df quattera wiiilt Ibuf -■'ehiMrqn^ and 
ifac then insecore et^te of Irdandy iuodo • it Mttpoa* 
sibfe^tD ftel^ notwithstandii^ the kind aad gebcnW 
iitWtion we invariably' received from tlM hospitable 
ilAabitants of that country.-^*^-— We pauei tfat" 
Winter in a cottage on die banka. oF^tfae Lrice jf 
Ulswater^ aad-icoiltinikd tiiere4iI1.4M May fellow- 

oMI^Itor'biir preient rtsidHiee at 
ediQkrjr'-luiA minjKEchanDMi: ht 
SHnbeth;- Sbe-dmri oDrreftlf /#aBi{iitti|fi^ miA 

be«uti&ll oft^'cdrledi lifsr; bcybikhiitbeTBouiids^af 
{fi<ikdenijpri&iiiti(nb witliTc^^^ her^dEfltHJ .S!W- 
i|uentijr iiKthemaiaeier flfae was oqt dcnriag: hr^hre or 

ibiirMcv Uo^ Md^iivtbattbiBeivfikedTinaajF niliis. 
Wnien Adfmdntad aliii^ :dKr ww'dwajrs Aiok 
cbeeffijl than tistial'f Mrer nid rahviwaa fa%ic^ 
sad sdcbm iapptared ^o« It a astowisiiiog fao^r «hft 
frnirid time for dljfhe jlcqbiMd; md ail abe icgam^ 
pbdicdj . NoAang wks i^agtedjcd^ theitf wasia tom^ 
pulbus'attentiofir' td: all the- roimiciit tif hisr n^ fiir 
her wi^U*r^faitaA miiid^ far fnocd dtajspiting'-tfaca^ 
ecRittdd»edllie«i IIS'* piiit<>f thai aysie^ elf peifi^^ 
at Uhidhafte ahMtd^r' M^^tn Svhich >vi^ Act the i««» 
aiilt oC i>atfityv 4i(i» ti^ aUroft Htkt tpplwaatf of the 
World) no hiitriiai hUAng ever ateght it i^, or ^raa 
itiore' etairely free ftotal eoti<>rit of ei^ery lrikid% The 
appFobetion of Goiy AAA tC hefiotvn oobsbienea 
werelheonly rliwards she eV^ nought ; butherowtt 
^6t4s declare this truth moch Mbre ibroibly 'than I 
«aD^ m a paper whfeb ia w^ kx Mia. Hm B^Ii 
possessicnu ... j .; - 

[ 180 ] 

«^ H^r translation of the Book of Job Mb finished 
ia 1 803. During the two last yean of her life, she 
wai engaged in translating from the Gcnnan aooM 
letters and papers, written by Mr. and Mrs. Sop* 
stock. Amongst her papers I found a letter finom 
Mrs. H. B — on this subgeft, dated Marah ISOSj 
in which she says, ^ my endeavours to obtain ,# 
dear account of the new edition of Klopstook'^ 
works have been unsuccessful, but I still hope thai 
I shall very soon know whether it ccmtains .any 
thing new, or worth sending to you. In the men 
time, if you are not tired, let me have every thing 
written by Mrs. Klopstock. We can determine on 
nothing till we have got all our treasure*.* Hie 
rest of this letter does not particularly felate to my. 
daughter, but I cannot forbear copying it^ Ibra 
reason that will be obvious to you* * Min H-r 
and I wished for a little country air, : and peiftft 
quiet. We sre in a lovely spot j not posseepii^ thf 
sublime beauties of your country, but the protticHi 
cheerful scene imaginable | ornamented wi}h lildi 
neat cottages, fields covered with Iambs, fine tiMS| 
^d the whole beautifully varied with ibili and daki 
To me it has still greater charmn, as it is Hiy na^vs 
country, the scene of my early happiness s . 

[ 181 3 

•* WhflR cnt my caidcM childliood itnty 'd, 
^ A.atranger yet to faanV* 

Myjint boose is always before my eyes^ and my 
lasi IS so near that I can luten to tbe bell: which 
tolled for those who were most dear to me on earthy 
and visit tbe'humble tomb where I hope to rest with 
them. Do you remember how often, during the last 
fow mtA% of her life, and after her facuhieB. were 
Itauch weakened by illness, my dearest mother used 
to say to hbneir, ^Verily there is a reward for the 
righteous!' We have placed these words on the 
stone which covers a vault, in which a little space 
rehiains for me. ' God grant that I may have 
reason to repeat them in my last moments with 
the ^tb and hope tbat animated her sweet coun- 
tenance !-«— Near forty years have elapsed since my 
parents quitted their residence in this country, but 
it is very pleasing to mtttess tbe gratitude with 
tirhich tfaey are still remembered. I talk to tbe poor 
grey-headed peasantr; and delight to hear them say, 
^ Tbe Squire and Bfadam were very good/ What 
cVer those may think who have only titles or wealth 
to boast of, the good are remembered longer than 
the great; and the name which I inherit from my 
&tber, still conciliates more good will in this little 

t i8« J 

spot than vay m the Peerage. Indeed ft 7s to easy 

to be beloved, it costs so little money or trouble^ 
and it pays auch rich interest, that' I wonder tnoAk 
attention is not bestowed on it.'!^ 

'^ For the translations fiom Kbpatock^ andfroai 
the Hebrew fiible^ as well as for many other ^riiifl|fi. 
both in verse and prose^ I refer yofi to Mrs. H.. 

■ ■ . ... f 

<« I am, dear Sir, &c. Ike." 

. * Seine apology may perhaps be required fixnnt^ 

* - - . ■ 

for opt omittmg the little tribute of filial afiedion» wUch' 

■ ■ ■ ^ ■ ■ • 

liifrs. S— had inserted in a letter written jto z friend iStiA 

families. To those who have equal reason to be prtMd dl 

their parents, the writer of this note ventures to appeal oa 

this occasion; and by them she hojpes to be fti^gjtvea.^ la 

her answer to this letter. Miss S— *• says, ^ Your inseripttba 

OA tl^e stone pleases me exceedingly. The wotiJlB an in 

ADfi^ sense appropriate. No one could witnesa the httter 

d^s of that holy life, without fecliiig a peifea oxfABm 

of their truth." 

I IM 3 


I V 

MI'S. S-— « TO THB Rsv. Dk. B- 

'^ Dear Sir,' / t .. 

'^ In compliance with yout request^ I will now 
endeavoar to tnux the ptogress of the &ta] disbise 
w^ich derived me of xny beloved child^ to the lattr 
4^1o8ing scene. In the sutnmer of the year 1805^ 
i3ii»tbeth was seized with a cold^ which terminated 
mher death ; and X wish the cause wasmoregenfi- 
M\y knowny ts a eantion 'to those whoitai studious 
fairh of minci may lead them into" the iame error; 


I will give the account as site hersdf related it^ a 
very short time before -she died^ to a faithful and 
affectionate servant^ wh6 first datae ifito the ftmily 
when xhy daughter was olnly six weeks 6ld. 

' One very hot evening ihjuly^ I took a, book; 
and walked about two miles from home^ where I 
iseated myself on a ston» beside the lake. Being 
much engaged by a poem I was reading, I did not 
perceive that the sun was gone down^ and was suc- 
ceeded by a very heavy dew 3 lili in a moment I' ftit 

[ 184 ] 

Struck on the chest as if with a sharp knife. I rcf* 
turned home^ but said nothing of the pain. The 
next day being also very hot, and eveiy one buaj in 
the hay-field, I thought I would take a rakcy and 
work very hard, to produce perspiration, in the hope 
that it might remove the pain, but it did not/ 

«' From that time a bad cough, with occasional : > 
loss of voice, gave mt great apprehension of Mrhat 
might be the consequence if the cause were notre* 
moved; but nokitreaties could prevail on her to take 
the proper remedies, or to refrain . from her uaual 
walks. This she persisted in, being sometime betters 
and then ali)tle worse, till, the beginning of Q^berj» 
1 had lox^ been engaged to spend the wuitcr wiUixa 
snpst djear and interesting. friend at Bath, and my 
three daughters had accepted a kind invitation to 
spend that time at Sunbury. Elizabeth had^.prcri: 
oua to hep^Ilness, offered to accompany me to Batbf. 
in order first to make a visit to Mr. and MrstC— > in 
the hope that she might possibly beguile aome.of the ^ 
painful hours, which that worthy man oooatandjiy ^ , 
though so patiently, endure/s; at least she lhoii|^ . 


that she might afford some little comfort. to. Mrt* 
C — • To these friends we wt)ge boundj byxvery 
tie pf gratitude and affedion, to ofier every fjonso- . 

C »85 ] 

latum m <Hlr power. Their hearU were ever open 
to ourgrie&; their bouse always afforded sheTier 
and protedicm from the various ^Is whidi assailed 
U9« To foy third sch they have proved th c < Dsd v € s» 
if possible^ i!Mr^ than parents. 

^' A few days before we were to. set oiit"fiiNn 
&-^— s my daughter became sb nqpidly worse,* that 
I doubted the possibility of her bearing the joomey; 
at the same time I was most anxious to remoifis her 
to « milder clunate^ and within reach of medical 
assistance. When we reached Kendal, I idnsfed 
onr taking the advice of a physician, as to the pro* 
priety of continuing our journey, and t received hie 
diredions for proceeding as fast as she cosdd bear 
without inconvenience ;~her pulse, he ^d, indicated 
considerable inflammation, and a warmer dimaie 
would be very desirable. She bore travelling much 
better than I could have expcafted, makii^ no com- 
plaint, but of pain in her legs, till we reached Glou* 
cester, when I was astonished to find thatsbe had lost 
al^ use of them. The next morning her voice too wis 
gone; and in this sad state, unable to speak or to 
stand, she was carried to the honse of our beloved 
friend hi P-«-i— • strcfet. From this deplorable coa« 
diuon she was soon relie?ed by the skill and alien* 

[ 186 1 

ikm of Dr. G— -^^ and we had langtioie taped* 
mions of her being restored tb health. As 8O0n as: 
ihm bad recovered the power of walking, rt«,Wtt«. 
Mbmoved to S Place; but instdtfd of a^oetofeit^ 
she became an additional cause of anxiaty-^WMn- 
and Mrs. C — • Friends less tenderly- anetitive;'or 
less uniformly attached^ would hkns shnrnV^fio^ 
the chatige of receiving her^ iniitead of jJMnsaiii^ fk^ 
l^eifomance of her promise. I saw htrdailyj^hid 
(ad the joy of seeing her gradually amend.. >:iAto 
tontinuing six weeks in S— — Haoe^ she wa^auatiiMf 
to see her beloved sister before her matiiigei and 
with Dr« G — ^'s approbation she accompaiised: am 
toSunbury. Her delicate state of health. asrar'wdl 
known to Sir J. L — ^^ but be most kindly. aigBd^her 
lemoval to his house^ thinking that . thft aogistiRttf 
her sisters^ and the change of air, mighl bfe.bttM^ 
ficial. In this conjeAure he was righXpmad^l^hlt 
hxTy iX the end of ten days, much better] idthoiM^ 
the marriage of her sister had greatly .agitated>> her 
^rks, as occasioning a separationifirom' the fiivonals 

ftfhef-heart. . -n ^ • 

^< I returned to the friend whom I had.kBiUlat 
fiath, and continued to -receive the^ «ndit iHaftflosg 
aceounts of Elizabeth's health) nol^enly froflifaenBlf^ 


[ w ] 

but from many Who observed tivs driightful cbange^i 
lb one ofmy letters to her> I «ked if she thought shar 
should be. better m any other place^ or if she could 
point out any situatioo in which she would feel herself 
more comfortable. In her answe;r she aaid^ ^ I )cDpii| 
no place in which | can be better, or any that I ahoul4 
like half so well.; The kindness and atteptionof Sic 
J. and Jiady h-^ cazinot be exceeded. I am left at 
p«sfe& Ubcurty to dq ^. I like, a^d you k^jH>w l^yr 
pleasant it is to (fne to listen tp the conversation oC 
two or three very sensible men, without .being obliged 
t3>.take4»y.partin it/«i — On the 6\h of March my 
fadoved foMul Lady ' expired. A few days 

before that event I had a letter from' my ^ugbterj^ 
to tell me that as she had some symptoms of re^ 
Ittruing inflammation, she had been bled, but ffipre 
as a prevqutWeji than from any necessity. On the 
Md I arrived at Sunbury, just as she was going out 
in a carriage witbrLa^y Lr— . I bad indulged ^ 
pleasing expe&atioa of seeing her materially bett^^ 
and was therefore thuiidfii;8truck al the first sight of 
her, for I instantly thought I discovered con$rmed 
decline in her countenance. On my. expressixig ta. 
my friends my suiprise, they told me she had bf^en 
greatly better^ that the change I perceived bad only 

[ 188 ] 

taken place a few days before, and might be ascribed 
to the long continuance of a cold east wind. I 
wrote the next day to Dr. B— ^ and fixed a time tor 
meeting him in London. After seeing her^ the 
Dodor candidly told me it was a very bad case; that 
he would try a medicine which sometimes had 
proved very beneficial^ but owned that he had little 
expedation of its succeeding ynth her^ aad desii^ 
to see her again in ten days^ which he acoordin^y 
did. He then said be would not trouble - her with 
more medicine; and on my entreating hink to tril' 
me exadly what plan he would wish to b^ pfMentA, 
without at all considering mjf situation } he r*^ 
plied^ '' In the month of May she may -go" '#hett 
she likes^ but early in September you b&d betttf g6 
to Flushing in Cornwall; unless she shouldfbe very 
much better than I own I expeft^ and in that tks^ 
I would recommend your going to the Madein^ j 
but to send you there, with my present Ofnnilni dF 
the case, would only be aggravating youir mMowl ^ 
removing you firom your country and yoiir fiftecfai.* 
To CFifton, Elizabeth always expressed a p&rt!ciilar 
dislike, saying that she was sure the waint of ahade 
would kill her; and as she shewed a decided pre-' 
fcrence to C ^ it was determined that weabouU- 

[ 1^ ] 

ffi thkher. Sir J. L— would not luflTer at .It 
depart till the weather became perfeftly mild; iiiit. 
deed I must ever gratefuUy remember bis uncom* 
monly friendly attention* ^Though a oonsiant in* 
valid and sufferer himself, scarcely a day past^ 
without his suggesting something likely to conU> 
bute to my daughter's ease and comfort; nor was 

Insdy L«-* less constant in her kind attentions. 

'^On the 6th of May we quitted the hospitable 
mansion of our friends at Sunbury, wh^re my daugb> 
lers had passed five months* Matlock water had been 
iccommended by some people, and with J)n B^$ 
approbation we determined to inake sopoe stay there* 
At that place Elisabeth saw her father, after an 
absence of many months. The pleasure of meeting 
him, the novelty of the scene, and the reniarkable 
fineness of the weather, seemed to give her in- 
creased stsength and spirits; and the day after pur 
arrival she walked so far, that I confessed myself 
tired, i>ut this apparent amendment was soon over, 
and she relapsed into her former languid state^ 
unable to walk to any distance^ and only ridiiig a 
Jittie way, while some one Wall^ed beside her. .We 
remained at Madock near three weeks, but not per- 
ceiving that she gained any benefit, we set off for 

[ 190 3 

C— — • Travelling al^rays teelntid to - agiiae>)rkl| 
her^ and on her arrival at her favourite ipotj -I agm 
perceived an alteration for the better^ but it mm 
odiy for a few days. I had a f0nt pitched 'ad^/iMf 
the house as I could, in- which stit sat the cMef^piirt 
of the day. When the weathek' permitted^ lAie n^ML 
nut in an open carriage, and hdwtVer ItCtiguid aha 
appeared, still the graiideiir of liie acttneiy nevct 
failed to call forth her admiration. One day^ 'when 
we were sitting in the tent, atid talking of the mtrs 
Tonnding beauties, she asked me if that woiilel iM 
be a good situation for our new 60 tta^.* I 8gMd 
tliat it would; but added,- '^ I can- deteimine ctt 
nothing, till I see how the next winter in GfMmwiH 
agrees with yon. Should your heaTth'be bietter (Metl^ 
we shall certainly sell this place, and settle in tba 
irouth.'^ She answered with more than uauaA «]iiidE!i> 
ness, ^ If I cannot live here, I am sure I eaii M 
where else.' This was the only thing she ever ftui 
io 972^ which implied an expeftatioa of appftechiiig 
death. I understand that she wrote toUoni^ bf her 
friends on the subjeA, and I find a letter iitmi 
Mrs. H. B — y which evidently alludes to someAiiig 

* A cottage is now. built on the beautiful spoty pointedl 

out by Miss S — » 

SliiaWeth had wrillialDifaer f<es{>e£l3ng1itT iiliMM^ 

•pmon.'taf jbcrfortale- of healthi thAoi 1 bai^ it.dof 
ienre^ bol mnebiaiteiition is hhd mill ^^'meeibafEyi 
anil;! dq^pdoRYoisrptnnae df tkkkig cirtJwSytn^i 
|el&! Li FdtiitUeiiofbbtthat.yoawecemd 
t >^orId9 ill' ^febich jis yot 3rouibaTe;]3ot bad nfesell 
^t^oyni&Qt^for one tlUeu> ia miich'be(terau]tedii^;Stioii 
i|cfaaiiiid'at..yoiais;!iiiit,W>capaot spare jiad'j iDdn 
Yaa wUVl^lv(ype»«'£iid mpch to iatareai yoa;iBlifef 
and ^though I mayidoil Five to see it^ yea may^ 
lime' or otbery be sarrotinded .vAdk 
mtf-mBk^ ametidi< for all pi^rt sorroiiis^'^uwiUift 
another lett€r' (firom the sasne 'friie»dy dated- Jotf 
t^^ 1806, 9hesa)«3 <When we aricrlo be Mikvad 
from our sofTerings, we - ask what oiir HdnttSlf 
WMLet oftek -m indrcy denies; bat when #e ask' to 
be supiKlfted vrndei' tbem, we ask what wt shifl 
emainly obtain, - Majr' ftm experience thta^^ fUai 

■ ■ ■ 

ebikl-of mjr heait,^ tinder every trial; and anafy iboW 
who love you flb'I'dd^ e)cperiehce it too/— -**Ntt 
other part of this i^etter was preserved^ which I ibi 

- * This written at a very early period of Miss S— ^'s 
iuness; and when all her friends* except her mother^ l^d 
iJopes of hier retfov^ry. ' 

more regret^ as I have since leamt tlutt it was itt 
answer to one which Elizabeth had written to 
prepare her friend for the event wfaidi soon afier^ 
wards took place. Her total silence to me, I 
ftar, may be ascribed to her perceivnig^ in qpite 
of all my endeavours to conceal it^ that I had long 
been too apprehensive of her real state; Mo 
one seemed to think her so ill as I did. Indeed^ 
the change was so gradual, that it was only by 
a comparison with the preceding week, that we 
were sensible of her having lost strength in the last* 
It was not till the Monday before her death that any 
material alteration appeared^ and I know you ara 
already informed, by a letter which I wrote to our 
mutual friend, of what passed during the last thiee 
days of her painful existence. 

*^ I have now, my dear sir, complied with your 
request, with regard to my bek>ved daughter. Per« 
haps my desire of fulfilling your wi^h, may ham led 
me into a tedious det^I of little matters ; and it is 
more than probable that the havoc which time and 
•orrow have made in my mind, may have occa- 
sioned my omitting some things of more import- 
ance. I do not attempt to draw any charafter of 
this inestimable being, because it was wcU know^ 

4mcl understood hy you; and the conduft 'of her 
whole life 4peak0niu6h more in Iher jpraise, tbaH 
caubl bef«xpR88td enren hy ibe iwrtial ftettofa 
ftftotbec. . « 

• ** I amy &c. 8ec/* • 


From Mrs. S— to mrs. H.B'— • 

" August. 1806. 
''Thank God^ I can now with some com- 
posure sit down to thank my best and dearest 
friend for all her kind letters; but after such a 
loss, we must have time to weep, and time to dry 

our tears, before we can either receive or bestow 

. ' • ■• . . ... 

comfort.— My neighbours have been kindly at- 
tcnti ve . to me. offering to come here, and begging 
me to go to them; but I have answered, that home 

and perfect quiet are all I can enjoy at present. 

' ' ■ ■' ' . ' 

God bless dear Mrs. D— , for her kind enquiry of 

who would comfort me. She knows how to admi- 

. _• J. • 

nister comfort^ even when she most needs .it herself. 

,^ *. ^ ■ ■ . . - ■■ 


[ 194 ] 

This I bflve experienced from ber^ and evtt gM0- 
fully shall I feel it. But God has comforted mt, 
and the gratifying convidion that my angd is for 
ever happy^ with the consciousness of having to Urn 
best of my abilities fulfilled my duty towards her^ 
are consolations which I would not exchange for 
this world's weatb. 

^^ I shall have a melancholy pleasure in comply- 
ing with your request^ and will begin where my last 

letter ended. T slept in a room only separated 

from my beloved child by a wooden partidoUj and 
so close to her bed that she could hear her breathe. 
On Wednesday morning T— — told me she was 
much the same^ though the sweet sufferer herself 
said she was better. I went to her, as usuafj ths 
moment I was out of bed, and was struck with the 
change in her countenance. On feeling her pube, I 
was persuaded she could not continue long. She told 
me she was better, and would get up. She did 80| 
and was cheerful when she spoke, though it evi<* 
dently increased her pain, and difficulty of bteathing. 
When she coughed or moved, she seemed to be in 
agony. She took nourishment as usual, and on my 
asking what book I should read to her, she meB« 
tioned Thomson's Seasons, I read Winter. She 

[ 1»5 ] 

made many observations, find entered entirely into 
the subjeft. About three o'clock Mrs, — called^ 
having come with a pArty to Sefe the Lake, Eliza- 
beth said she should like to see her. Before she 
went up stairs, I requested she would feel the pulse^ 
1;^hi<ih I was persuaded indicated the termination of 
lier sufferings before many hours. She entered 
into conversation cheerfully, Mrs, — — told, me 
that she thought I was mistaketij that her pulse 
were not those of a dying person, and she was of 
opinion that she might last some time. So much 
were all deceived, who did not watch every turn of 
her countenance as I did ! The apothecary cam6 
afterwards. He thought her in great danger, but 
could not say whether immediate^ or not. At nine 
she went to bed. I resolved to quit her no more^ 
and went to prepare for the night. T— — came to 
say that Elizabeth entreated I would not think of 
staying in her room; and added, ^ she cannot bear 
you should do it, for she says you are yourself unwell^ 
and rest is necessary for you.' Think of her sweet 
attention! I replied, ^^on that one subje£t lam 
resolved; no power on earth shall keep me from her; 
JO go to bed yourself." Accordingly I remmed to 
her room^ and at ten gave her the usual dose oi 

o 9i 

jandanum. After a little time she fill i^rto a doae^ 
f^nd I thought slept till past one. She thea todk 
some miut-tea. Her breath wan very bad^ and 
^e was uneasy and restless^ but never compluned ; 
and on my wiping the cold sweat off her fiiee^ and 
bathing it with camphorated vinegar^ which I dU 
very often in the course of the nighty she thanked 
xne^ smiled, and said^ ^ that is the greatest oomibrt 
I have/ She slept again for a jhort time^ and at 
half past four asked for some chicken-brotb ^ whicli 
she took perfectly well. On being told Uie hour^ 
she said, ' how long this night is!' She continued 
^ery uneasy, and in half an hour after, on my enqni- 
fing if I could niove the pillow, or do aay thing to 
■relieve her^ she replied, ^ there is nothing for it but 
quiet/ I said no more, but thinking that she wai 
dying, I sat on the bed watching her.-- ^- At six she 
said^ ^ I must get up, and have some miat-tea ;' I 
then called for T — , and felt my aogels' puls^; they 
were fluttering, and I knew I should soon lose her. 
She took the jtea well ; T—- began to put on hsr 
clothes, and was proceeding, to dress her, when she 
laid her head on the faithful creature^s shoulder^ fac- 
caqde ponyplsed in the face, spoke noty looked noti 
and in ten. miautes expired. 

c m J 

^< It did no€ appear that she thou^t her end wasF ^' 
very near;: for only two diays Hefore^ she told T-^ 
the chaise was finished^ and she should speak to mci 
to have it bome^ for it would be better to go an 
suriag in it^ before we set out on the journey. I did' 
not tell her my opinion of her state^ because I might 
be mistaken^ and I believed that her whole life fiad' 
been one state of preparation for the aWful change. 
£very paper I have found confimis this gratifying 
idea. On'reiledion^ I have every thing to reconciile 
me to her loss^ but my own selfish feelings; and 
having witnessed the sufferings of humanity in a 
beloved child^ 

** Though raised above 
<* The reach of human pakj, above the flight 
** Of human joys; — yet with a mingled ray 
«• Of sadly pleas'd remembrance, must I feel 
« A mother's love, a mother's tender woe!" 


Be easy, my dearest friend^ on the subjefl of 
iny health; it is as good as usual, and I wonder 
myself at the state of my mind. I believe the 
overlooking my Elizabeth's papers has administered 
more comfort to me than I could have received from 
any other source; for every line has strengthened my 

t 198 ] 

convidion that the dear writer of them must be ' 
happy. I regret her having destroyed many papers' 
lately. Those remaining are chie6y religious and 
moral refle&ions, translations from the Bible^ &c. I 
wish to send them to you> with some little trifle of 
her property for each of her dearest friends. You 
will value them as having been hers^ and excuse the 
dotage of a parent who wishes her friends to re- 
member the treasure she once possessed. Tell me 
that you and all whom I tenderly love are better. 
I need not name them. I have a thousand things to 
say to you^ but it canixot be now. God for ever bless 
you^ my dearest friend ! Thank all those who so 
kindly feel for me/* 


" September 1 . 

*' Mr. A — very kindly desires me to set off di- 
re£ily for Edinburgh^ thinking it necessary I should 
immediately quit a place in which I have su£fer^ so 
much; and I have a very kind letter from K-^^ 
which I have answered by saying that it is my in- 
tention to be with them on the 26th. I have also a 
most friendly invitation from Mrs. R— ; two or 
three of my neighbours have kindly made the same 

[ i«r ] 

offer; but at present I like no place but this. I love 
to look at the seat on which my angel sat^ at the bed 
on which she lay; in short nothing consoles me but 
what reminds me of her. It is a sorrow which is 
soothing to my mind^ and raises it above the petty 
griefs to which I have too often given way. Nature 
never bestowed on me her talents; habit never gave 
me the same application ; but my beloved child has 
left me an example whichi should glory in following^ 
and I pray God that I may enabled to do so ! 

^^ I had promised Mr. and Mrs. G — y that the first 
visit I made should be to them^ provided they would 
assure me that I should see no one else. Whilst I 
was there^ Mrs. G. was called out to a lady whp was 
going on dire£lly^ and who had with her Mr. and Mrs. 
G— C — ; I b^ged tq see her ; but this unexpected 
meeting overset all my firmness, and she observed 
that she had never seen me so cut down before. I 
answered that I had never before lost fo much. 
Wo,* said she, ' nor any other human being.' You 
may imagine how grateful these words were to my 
heart. The dear woman stayed only a few minutes, 
and is gone to Edinburgh, where she will see our 
belpyed K-r-. I bave blotted n^y p^per, but you 
ynll excuse it/^ 


^^ September 8« 

^* Ou the 5tli T dispatched a little box for you* It 
Gontains all the paper»^ a small parcel^ 8lc. You^ 
Will observe in one of the memorandum-booka- a^ 
few worda respe&ing the expenditure of the l^acy 
left her by your excellent mother^ which I am- sura- 
will please you.* I think I did Ihww your saiBtcd* 
parent; and doing so^ I felt a* reverence and afiedion 
for her little short of yours. When I consider her 
unvaried affe£tiou for me,, I fear I am tempted, to 
think better of myself than I ought. 

^ B — 's sudden removal from this country haft 
sensibly affected me^ because I feel persuaded that I 
must not expert to see him more.f If it please God^ 
tb preserve his life,, it will probably be j^ears befiue 
he returns; and (like you) I do not look far in thift" 
world, nor dare I look forward to any pleasing, eyoni;; 
In. five short months I witnessed two sadi scenes o£ 
dcath^ and the impression each made on tay-mii^ 
can never be effaced. 

* * Account of a legacy left me by that excellent and- 
ever-honoured Mrs. B — . May I fpend every sixpence aa she 
■would advise me to do, if she Were present!* 

f The diird'son of Mrs. S — > who was theflf ordeiri' 
to join the expedition under General CrawfunL 

f Mr J 

r ^ I can now again attend' my own parish cHurcti; 
and I cannot tell you< how gratifying it is to ine;^-^I 
sysem to meet my belbved- Elizabeth every Sundtiy. 
This idea occasions sensations that T would- not ex- 
change for any earthly treasure. They are not sndl 
as de(tress my spirits; quite otherwise* They excite 
my hope^. increase my piety^ and strengthen me to 
meet the trials of. the ensuing week.. Indieed I feel 
that, she is dearer to me every day.'* 

«* F^OM Mrs. G To Mrs. H. B— . 

'* September 9, 1 806. 
** Peeling- as I know yoii do for your beloved 
ftiend at C , I think it will be a comfort to heap 
from one who has had much intimate conversation 
with* her since the sad loss she has sustained. It ii^ 
truer that to you she has opened her whole hearty and 
you know ail that passes there better than I can tell 
you; but it will interest you to hear of her looky 
and deportment from a fnend who has seen her 
frequently, and who feels for her most sincerely* 
Yesterday evening we returned from C-*— , after 
passing two daya there* Her firmness^ her collet* 

[ 202 ] 

ed mind^ exceeds any thing I have seen^ because 
I trace through it feelings the most acute. 

^^ The instant we heard of what had happened, 
Mr. G — y impressed by the idea of her receiving 
the blow in a state of solitude, was inclined to go 
diredly, but I convinced him that it was better to 
write first. I soon had a few lines which afforded 
til the 8atisfa£lion we could expe£t to receive; quiet, 
she said, was at first absolutely necessary, but it 
would be a comfort to see us when she could sup- 
port the meeting* A worthy Clergyman afforded 
all necessary assistance, and to him she gave di- 
re£lions as to all that was to be. done. The last 
solemn cereipony took place early in the morningi 
and was condu6lcd with perfect simplicity. It was 
over before we heard of it^ otherwise Mr. Gp— and 
I should have been tempted, through re8pe£t for the 
living and the dead, to have attended. Qn Mr* CS— '• 
account, however, I believe it was better omitted^ 
though he says it would have been a satisfaAion ; 
but it might have been too much for his i^erve^ 
for they were so much affcdlcd by his first visit to 

C 9 that it was several days before he recovered. 

Indeed it was an afledling visit. On that day three 
weeks we had seen your dear girl sitting qn4er tbe 

[ 903 ] 

same t^nt in a field overlooking the Lake^ accom* 
panied by her Father^ Mother^ aQd Sister; now we 
found her place empty^ her Mother and Sister alpne* 
It was not very long before Mrs. S — had the reso^ 
lution to speak of her. She sought and found the 
highest consolation in dwelling on her virtues^ and 
on the proofs she had found in the writings she left 
behind, that she was well prepared to quit this 
world. Mrs. S — afterwards read to us the mosi 
kindly sympathising letter from T — W — that ever 
was written on such an occasion, with some verses 
to th^ memory of his favourite, so charaderistic, 
and coming so truly firom the heart, that neither 
Mr. G — nor I could restrain our tears. Mr. G— 
rejoices in having fitted up that shew-box for you^ 
and means to do an appropriate moon-light for it." 

f^ From Mrs. G— To Mrs, H, B— , 

f^ Mr. G — has been trying to do his promised 
moon-light in a way that may do some justice to 
bis regard for you, and to the memory of the inte- 
resting person to whom it alludes, but he bids me 
tell you that, when most anxious to do his best, he 
seldom can please himself. He trusts however that 

C 204 J 

3«)u will be in some degree gratified by this toketf 
of his regard to you^ and to the memory of one w 
justly dear to you^ and so afie£tionately valued bjr 
himself* He applied to me for some lines to write 
on the space he has left at the bottom of the frame^^ 
and was pleased with my suggestion of seleAing a 
couplet from the verses written by T— W— ••^ 
They came pure from the heart of one who truly 
appreciated her character, and tenderly lamented 
her loss." &c * 

I will here add the letter and poem mentioned by 
Mrs, G-^. The author, T— W— , a Quaker, is 
well known, and universally respected in the coon* 
try where be resides; and Mrs. S— * says> of faim^ 

* Widi this letter I received a beautiful landscape, with 
in urn sacred to the memory of my beloved friend, which it 
placed with her transparencies. This pidhire was ene of 
the last efforts of Mr. G — 's elegant pencil. That inge" 
irious, amiable, and most excellent man, died on the 10th 
of June, 1807. The lines to which Mrs. G — Eludes are. 
now indeed peculiarly appropriate, and they are placed oil 
the pi^hire: 

"'Long shall my care these sweet memorials save; 
** The hand that tnicedthetn rests within the grave!**" 

[305 ] 

'^ He is one of the very few people who resJIy knew 
my daughter^ and he felt for her diarafler that es- 
l^eepi which the wise and good ever entertiain for 
fi$f:h other/* Miss S-*- had 9Hich pletasure ia 
JtiiB Mciety and corresppndenc^^ and he spnietimes 
Intended her and her aisters [h their long walks 
jtmot^st the mountaiiis. 

^*To Mfts.S— . 

^* My dear Friend, 
^^ Will it be an intrusion on the sacrednesa of 
thy sorrow^ thus io address thee? I have heard of 
4hy km, and can truly say I sympathize tbienein. 
I have awoke in tears in the night, to meditate on 
the affeding' event; and the thoughts of my friend, 
and precious daughter, are frequently my com pant* 
oiis by day. Many are now my recolleftions of dear 
Elizabeth; her sweet and serious countenance is 
often so vivid ininy remembrance, that I sometimes 
can hardly think I shall see her no more* How un- 
searchable are the ways of the Almighty 1 He 
frequently fele£ls the wisest and the best for him* 

[ 206 ] 

sdlf, whilst ^' the world lying in wickedness*' seenti 
to want their example and reproof^ and the virtuoiifl 
and drooping Christian their encouragement and 
support. Yet we are not to question his ways j fas 
surely they are in wisdom^ though that wisdom wt 
cannot comprehend. Never let us forget, my fiiend^ 
that this is a state of trial. Affli£lion and trial ^H 
terminate in the grave, and if we are faithful to the 
last^ we shall rise in happiness. I have had no parti-* 
culars of the trying event; when thou hast strength 
to write^ it would be desirable to know how thoa 
and J — are, and whether thy husband, or any 
branch of the family, were at C — ■■ during the 
fM>lemn scene? Thy lot has often been to bear^the 
heaviest part of the burthen. I shall devote the 
rest of my paper to a little memorial of its kind to 
thy valued daughter. 

*^ Farewell! With true esteem and afiedion^ I 
remain thy sincere and sympathising friend, 

^' T. W." 


•< HOW dark this river, murmuring on its Way| 
This wood how solemn, at the close of day! 
What clouds come on, what shades of evening ^H ^ 
Till one vast veil of sadness covers alll-— 

[ «07 j 

Theti wiiy alone thus lingering do I roam^ 
Heedless of clouds, of darkness, and of home l- 
Well may I linger in this twilight gloom 
Alone, and sad — Eliza's in her tomb! 
She who so late, by kindred taste ally'dy 
Fkced this lone path, conversing at my side; 
The wildering path 'twas her delight to prove* 
Through the green valley, or the cooling grove» 

^ Can I forget, on many a summer's day. 
How through the woods and lanes we wont to stray 9 
How cross the moors, and up the hills to wind, ■ 
And leave the fields and sinking vales behind : 
How arduous o'er the mountdn steeps to go, 
Ahd look by turns on all the plains below; 
How scal'd th' aerial cliffs th' adven'trous maid, 
Whilst, far beneath, her foil'd companion staid f 

^ Yet whilst to her sublimest scenes arise, 
Of mountains pil'd on mountains to the skies* 
The intelle^al world still claim'd her care- 
There she would range, amid the wise and fairy 
Untutor'd range; — ^her penetrating mind 
Left the dull track of school-research behind; 
Rush'd on, and seiz'd the funds of Eastern Jore, 
Arabia, Persia, adding to her store« 

** Yet unobtrusive, serious, and meek, 
The first to listen, and the last to speak; 
Though rich in inteliedt, her powers of thought 
lo youth's prime season no distin^ion sought; 

I SOB 3 

But ever prompt at duttf^ sacred call, . .-^j .' 

She oft in- silence left the social hall. 

To trace the cots and villages around. 

No cot too mean, where nusery mi^t be founds 

How have I seen her at the humblest shedy . . 

Bearing refreshment to the sick man's bed; 

His drooping spirits cheer'd — she from his door 

Retum'dy amid the blessings of the poor ! 

«« Oh, lost Euza! dear, ingenuous maid, I 

While low in earth thy cold remains are laidy 
Thy genuine friendship, thy attentions kind, - . 

Rise like a vision on my pensive mind; 
Thy love of truth, thy readiness to please. 
Thy sweet, refin'd simplicity and ease, 
Enhanc'd die favours of ingL-nious art, 
And made thy gifb pass onward to the heart: 
These beauteous tints,* diese peaceful scenes I tiewy' 
Thy taste designM, and ready friendship drew; 
Long shall my care the sweet memorials save-^ 
The hand diat tracM them rests within the grave! 

<' Lamented maiden ! pensive and alone. 
While sorrowing friendship pours her tender moaiiy 
Sad memory sees thee, at our parting hour. 
Pale, weak, yet lovely as a drooping flower. 
Which sheds its leaves on autumn's sickly bed ;—-' 
Thou from thy pillow raised thy peaceful head; 

* ** Her drawiogs in a rustic buildiog beside the liwer JSmonU* . 

[ S09 ] 

Tb roe thou held'st thy feeble hand— it bore 
Naambannaf dying on his native shore; 
Like his, Religion's holy truths, addressed 
To thy young mind, were treasured in thy breast ; 
Like hisy we saw thy early blossoms wave ; 
Now see the Virtues weeping o*er thy grave !" 

The last manuscript with which I was favoured by 
Dr. Mumssen arrived tooJate ; and when I wrote to 
thank him for it^ I mentioned the irreparable loss 
I had sustained^ and spoke of my lamented friend 
in the following words ; which drew from him an 
answer so gratifying to my feelings, that I hope I 
may be pardoned for inserting it. My letter con- 
tains a very imperfeft sketch of* Miss S-^'s charac* 
ier, but it is drawn with truth* 
' • • • 


Extract from a Letter from Mrs. H. B — 

to Dr* Mumssen. 

^^ September 1806. 
^^ The lovely young creature on whose account 
I first applied to you, had been for above a year 

t An affedting account of the pious African, Henry GranviUe 
Kaambanna, which she gave the author, as he took his last leave of 
lier a short time before her death. 


I sio 3 

gradually declining, and on the 7th of Aii^tst she; 
resigned her pure spirit to God who gave it. Her 
chara£):er was so extraordinary^ and she was so very 
dear to me, that I hope you will forgive my dwelling 
a little longer on my irreparable loss. Her person 
and manners were extremely pleasing, with a pen- 
sive softness of countenance that indicated deep 
reflexion f but her extreme timidity concealed the 
most extraordinary talents that ever fell under my I 
observation. With scarcely any assistance;^ she 
taught hersdf the French^ Italiai, Spanish^ Ger- 
man, OLatin, Greeks and Hebrew languages. She 
had no inconsiderable knowledge of Arabic and 
•Persic. She was well acquainted with Geomebyt 
Algebra^ and other branches of the 'Mathematics^ 
She was a very fine musician. She drew land* 
scapes from nature extremely well^ and was a mis- 
tress of perspective. She shewed an early taste &r 
poetry, of which some specimens reitiain ; but I 
believe she destroyed nK>st of the eflu^ions of her 
youthful nuise, when an acquaintance with your 
^peat poet, and •still more when the sublime com- 
positiotis of the Hebrew bards, gave a drfierent turn 
to her thoughts. With all these acquirements she 
was perfectly feminine in her disposilionj elegaolt 

modest, gentle, and affeftionate; nothing was ne- 
glect ed, which a woman ought to know; no duty 
was omitted, which her situation in life required her 
to perform. But the part ofhercharaSer on which 
I dwell with the greatest satisfa^otl, is th^t exaiTted 
pi^y, which seemed always io raise her above thig 
world, and taught her^ at sixteen years of age, to 
tesign its ribbcrs and its pleasures almost without 
regret, and; to support with dignity a very tmexpeAed 

change of situation. For sotne years before bet 

death the Holy Scripture was her principal study^ 
and she translated from the^Hebrew the whole book 
of Job, &c. &e. How far she succeeded in this 
attempt I am not qualified toju'dgfe; but the betiefit 
which she herself derived from these studies must 
be evident to those who witnessed the patience and 
resignation with which she' supported a long: and 
painful illness, the sweet attention which she alwayis 
shewed to the feelings of her paivnts and friendsy 
and the heavenly composure with which she looked 
forward totheawAil change which- has <now>removed 
her to a worlds ^ where (as one of ber friends 
observes) her genUej^- pore, apd enlightened spirit 
will find itself more at home than in this land of 

ghadows/ &c. &c. 

p 2 


[ 2J2 ] 


^^ Altonay Oct. 3, 1 806. 

Let me very heartily sympathise with you^ 
dear Madam^ in your sorrow. The loss you have 
sufiered is great, is irrecoverable ia this world. The 
account you gave me of the extraordinary charaSer 
of your late angelic friend, has filled my breast with 
admiration and awe. I have read your letter with 
tears. So many accomplishments^ natural and 
moral; so much of science, erudition^ and eminence 
of rare talents, combined with grace^ with gentle- 
ness, and all the virtues that adorn a female mind ! 
It is wonderful, and cannot be enough admired. 
Great, indeed, must have been your happiness in 

the possession of this treasure. Alas! the gentle 

spirit that moved her tender limbs is soon divested 
of its mortal garment^ and gone to join its kipdred 
angels ! 

' Vattene in pace, Alma beata e bellal' - 

But I think her happy in this our period j for what 
can be more fortunate on earth than to faH into the 
hands of the virtuous, and free frOm contaft of a 
corrupted race^ to make her passage oyer fmr m^ 

[ 213 ] 

lucky planet pure and immaculate, and with the 
robe of innocence appear before her Oeator? To 
taste all the sweets of science and art, and having 
satisfied all honest desires, remove from the feast of 
life with gratitude, '' 'Tis a consummation de- 
voutly to be wished I* 

*^ Your being deprived of such a hand, I fear, 
will' put a stop to your honourable projeift; yet I will 
bope that somebody will be found to assist you in 
reducing and sifting the materials you havecqlle^ed. 

*^ Pray tell me the name of your late young friend, 
that I may honour her memory. Such radiant 
flames seldom descend to' inhabit terrestrial forms. 
i-^- if With true esteem and affeftion, I am, &c« 

Letter xiL 

From the Rev. Dr. R — to Mrs. S — . 

" I HAVE to thank you, my dear Mrs. S— , for 
your very interesting manuscript. To those who 
once shared the friendship of your excellent daugh- 
ter, the most trifling incidents of her life are now 
become valuable records 5 and scenes of childhood. 

[ 214 ] 

when connccled with the expansive powers of 
genius, cease to be insignificant; as the smallest rill 
assumes an importance from being contemplated as 
the source oF a great and majestic ri^r. Let me 
however confess, that without a more powerfuT 
motive for ray request, than the one you so justly 
assign to me^ I should have spared you the sad 
remembrance of the days of infantine occupations; 
and judging of the culture by the produce^ bani 


given due credit to your system of education, not 
felt any inclination to pr\' further into the secrets of 
a mother's care, 

•^ But llie plant you had the happiness to rear ia 
the moral garden of life, (though, alas! of ^ort 
duration,) exhibited such a luxuriant fertility, and a 
vigour of shoot so far exceeding the ordinary growth 
of intelleS, that it seems a duty you owe to society 
to mark the several points and stages of its advance* 
mcnt to such early maturity. 

^^ I see you start at the proposal I am about to 
make; but the papers now before me not only 
serve to increase my admiration of your beloved 
child, but convince mc, the more I read them, that 
she tliat is gene ought to live in universal remcm* 
brance; that over such a grave grief should not b^ 

C 215 ] 

dimib ; and that the world, deprived by her death afi 
one of its brightest oruaments,,has a claim to every: 
memorial of her exalted worth and talents, to shew 
the unthinking crowd what may be done, and to hold- 
forth an example of what has been doncy even in star 
short a space of time, by fulfilliug the duties of a 
Christian life, and the purposes of rational existence.; 
** You know that I am no advocate, generally. 
8p«aking, for biographical sketches and memoirs* 
The vanity of some of these communications might 
well be spared, and the profligacy of others ought 
not to be endured. But if the reflecting reader, 
tired or disgusted with a mere series of adventures, 
should prefer a narrative that ledthemind to thought^ 
to one that only filled it with wonder or amusement; 
if he had. rather follow Cowper to his study than a 
general to the fidd, or a statesman to the cabinet; 
to such a olasft of readers, I scruple not to say, you * 
have it in your power to offer a most captivating 
publication. »Every page I unfold fills me with fresh 
astonishment | and when I coIle£l: the evidence of 
•your daughter's attainments within the short period 
of her earthly existence, when I combine the graces 
<)f person, and the elegance of accomplishments, 
with her more noble and higher distinSions of in- 

[ 216 J 

telled, T seem to lose sight of what once adorned 
society, and to be tracing a form of ideal perfe^ooe 
^^ Over every thing she touches she secMns to 
spread a new charm; and whether she fumifhes 
materials from her own capacious mind, or draws 
them from the stores of others, there is a choice and 
arrangement which evinces the soundest judgment^ 
as well as the sweetest imagination. Her feelings 
are exquisite, but never romantic; and in the flight 
of her most excursive fancy, she keeps within the 
bounds of truth and taste. In all that she invents 
or describes, nothing is overcharged or unnatural. 
Her pen, like her pencil, places every objeft in the 
most pleasing point of view; and the delicaey of her 
thoughts is even heightened by the purity^ I may 
say piety, of the expressions in which they are con- 
veyed. In her various translations from the Ger- 
man, and other languages, most of which I have 
compared with the dificrent authors, she never 
mistakes or weakens the spirit of the original.— 
Klopstock, under her management, talks £nglish as 
well as his native tongue; and the wannest of his 
admirers would rejoice to hear the facility and pre- 
cision with which she lias taught their favourite poet 
and philosopher to converse amongst us,*-—* Of her 

r 8« ] 

0earcb with famiHair expOMtton. From the received 
tiinshitioti it vtry seldom unnecessarify deviates, 
which I consider to be a proof of the author's tast<! 
and judgment) fer, in general, the language of our 
Xnglifh Bible is such at ho one possessing these 
wonld wish to alter. Tbecort tftion of error^^ and the 
inprorement of th« sense^ seem to lie the only in«- 
ducemei^Sj and «erveas the ehief guides in every vari* 
ation of phrase adopted In the version of your friend. 
These variations are undoubtedly sometimes consi* 
durable, but always il^genious, and generally well- 
foiimded, and nev^i* basftrdtd but W4tb reasonaUe 
colour, and manifestly after much investigation. 
Kewreadingi and new significations are occasionally 
liftMdaeed; end firom thel^pearance of some of 
lb<M^ <efc iriiie eonkmencememt of the work, I had at 
first beM led to ennmain doubtt as to the merit off 
JIhe trandatioftf but upon farther acqnaintatioe, and 
a: fuller reYteioIr^ 1 find Jbem much less frequent and 
less violent than (I am ikmry to say) arc to be met 
9irith in most of our modlbni vsrsiona of the various 
parts of the Old Testament.. Con^e&iiral emenda- 
tions of the text pardoularly are most sparingly in<<> 
dulged in; so that upon the v^hole, I cannot but n>* 
commend the publication of the entire version; in 

[ «'7 1 

Hebrew versions^ of which I would not allow' my* 
self to be a competent judge^ I can now speak ta 
the strongest terms of praise, ffom the testimony of 
some of our best Hebrew scholars^ to whom the 
Book of Job has been more particularly submitted. 
The opinion of this extraordinary produ&ion, tnns« 
mitted to me by a friend who ranks among the first 
in this department of literature, I here subjoin. 

' My dear Sif> 

'I H AYK exceeded the time I had presctibed to 
myself for sending you my report of the MS. of Job} 
but I was desirous to form the best judgment I was 
capable of, before I ventured on a final opinion. Z 
have now, however, most fully satisfied' my mind 
upon the subjed } and I feel that I should do great 
injustice to the work, if I did not pronounce it to be 
an excellent translation. After a close scrutiny, and 
a careful comparison with the original, it strikes me 
as conveying more of the true chara6ter and mean* 
ing of the Hebrew^ with fewer departures from the 
idiom of the English, than any other translatioo 
whatever that we possess. It combines tiocnracy of 
version with purity, of style, and unites cndcal it% 

[ S19 ] 

the fullest confidence that it will be received as 2 
valuable present by the lovers of biblical literature/ 

^^ Upon such proofs^ I may venture to rest my 
justification^ if any be necessary^ for earnestly re* 
questing your permission to draw from the journal of 
faer.iinpraveiDeDt a simple narrative of your daiigh* 
ter's life. Many of the documents must necessarily 
be omitted^ but enough may be given to confirm 
our estimate of^ her worthy and prove to the world 
that it has not been raised beyond its due standard 
hy the paititlity of her sorrowful and surviving 
friends.— *^If the dear companion of some of her 
early studies might be prevailed on to undertake the 
mrrangemeat of the materiah^ (and I think onr 
solicitations to her for that purpose may Aot be in 
vain^) your mind will be better reconciled to the 
measure^ and the world will be satisfied as to the 
fidelity of the detail.— —Let us^ I beseech you^ 
unite to accomplish this; and believe me^ &c/' 

* Letter from the Rev. Dr, Magec, of Trinity college, 
Dublio^ author of Discourses on the Do^oe of the Atone- 


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